


Enquiries

by StarlightInHerEyes22



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Assassination attempts, BAMF!Merlin, Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Gwaine Finds Out, High King!Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Loyalty, Magic Reveal, Merlin!whump, Oblivious!Arthur, Some humour, Violence, Witch-finders, protective!Gwaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:39:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4943506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightInHerEyes22/pseuds/StarlightInHerEyes22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Gwaine wanted was to find out Merlin's last name. He wasn't expecting to get caught up in assassinations and intrigue, in prophecy and fate, or in a silent war that had apparently been going on since before he came to Camelot. </p>
<p>With witch-finders and sorcerers of unknown loyalties running through the halls of Camelot, will Gwaine's own past make or break his friendships... especially when Merlin's biggest secret is revealed?</p>
<p>Truths will come to light. Brotherhoods will be tested. And, in the end, will anyone's secrets be safe?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically what happened when Raynebowe and janiecat requested that I expand two of my drabble arcs (and while I'm not gifting this fic, it wouldn't be here if it wasn't for them. Thanks guys! ^_^). I was originally going to write two separate, smaller fics, but both storylines were very Gwaine-centric and just seemed to slot together. Then the plot bunnies started running rampant and... yeah. I'm currently planning on ten chapters, subject to change depending on what happens as I get further into the fic. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please note: Individual trigger warnings will be listed at the start of each chapter. Chapter 1; Attempted murder, what basically amounts to the suicide of an OC, referenced/ implied off-screen torture of an OC.**
> 
>  
> 
> Rated M because I read that list of warnings and got twitchy, and am not yet sure how dark this will go in later chapters (feel free to let me know if you think I'm being over-cautious). Beta'd by kichia437. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin. For entertainment purposes only, no profit is being made.

PROLOGUE

 

Merrain kicked up her boots idly, swinging them back and forth beneath the table in an attempt to relieve some of her tedium. It wasn’t working. She stared at the wooden grain of the door, tracing its lines and whorls with her eyes and wondering what on earth was going on behind it. The screams had stopped nearly ten minutes ago, and it was making her edgy. Either the druid had broken, or her father had killed the man and all of her effort in finding him had been for nothing.

In which case, she would be more than a little annoyed.

There was a muffled thud and a curse, and her heart sank. Two months. It had taken her two _bleeding_ months to track down someone who might know anything at all about their quarry – and he had somehow succeeded in ruining all of her hard work in less than two days.

She heard the key scrape in the lock and lounged back against the hard stone wall, feigning nonchalance as the door creaked open and the oddly red-tinged light spilled forth from inside to mingle with the weaker golden glow of her candle. It only swung wide enough for her father to squeeze through – not nearly far enough for her to catch a glimpse of the cell’s other occupant – but his facial expression told her everything that she needed to know, and her annoyance melted away. Merrain’s lips quirked upwards of their own accord, stretching into a feral grin that felt more like baring her teeth than actually smiling.

“You found him?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And,” the man said slowly, satisfaction dripping from every word, “you were right. He’s in Camelot.” He paused pointedly, and Merrain slithered off of the table-top and offered him the pitcher of water that she had kept ready, stifling her annoyance as he took it without a word of thanks. He downed the majority of its contents in one go, Adam’s apple bobbing furiously, before tipping the remainder over his blood-stained hands and wiping them off carelessly on the dark, expensive material of his pants. He held it back out to her silently when he was done, and she took the cup grudgingly, replacing it on the table before falling into step beside her father as he strode from the ante-chamber without a backwards glance.

Merrain couldn’t help herself. She didn’t regret her actions, but she always looked back. Just for a moment – she could give them that much, at least. Then she was focused back on the task at hand.

“Are we sure that he was telling the truth?” she asked quietly, watching her father closely in the gloom of the corridors. She’d left her candle behind. “He folded so quick I thought you’d killed him.”

“I’m sure,” he said shortly, and she found herself with no desire to ask how he was so certain. “It would seem that Arthur Pendragon’s continued anti-magic stance has some people beginning to doubt whether or not he truly is their prophesized Once and Future King. Perhaps they are beginning to find the limits to their loyalty.”

“But the guard, it could still be _him_?”

“Or another of his kind keeping his place – holding down the fort, so to speak. We won’t know until he’s standing in front of us.”

“I’ll leave for Camelot immediately. I’ll take-”

“No.”

Merrain froze, missing a step. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.” Her father glanced at her sideways, the kind of amused expression in his dark eyes that she had learned to hate over the past decade. “I’m sending Gallow, and Stephen. They know what to do.”

“Gallow is a fool,” Merrain said harshly, ice pooling in her stomach. “This is my hunt, Father. I’ve spent _months_ chasing after this, and I found him a way to him when no-one else could! I can finish it, you know I can.”

“But you will not.”

“You can’t just pull me off of this _now_ -”

“I can and I will!” her father barked, and the two of them stopped walking abruptly, facing off squarely with their matching strong, stubborn features – one set grizzled and rugged, the other hardened beyond its age – mired in gloom. “This is not your everyday witch-hunt, Merrain,” he said silkily. “This is so much more. This is _everything_ that we have ever worked towards.”

Merrain took a deep breathe, knowing that losing her temper would get her nowhere, and instead set her jaw, focusing on finding a flaw in her father’s logic. “I am more skilled than anyone else under your command,” she said softly. “More experienced. You’ve been training me for this since before I could walk. If anyone can do it, and bring glory to our name, I can.”

“True,” he agreed, but there was no readable sign of any change of heart in his expression. “But you are also my heir.” She opened her mouth to argue, and his expression hardened. “Use your head,” he growled, losing patience. “This is not a sprint. It is a marathon. We need intelligence. We need to gauge our foe’s power, and his defences. One does not charge in blindly against a child of prophecy, Merrain. One tests, feints, parries – and then, when he is least expecting it, one strikes. And strikes true, because you will not get a second chance.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Send them. And when they come back on a bier, with your damn intelligence, _then_ I’ll get my chance.” She eyed him fiercely, daring him to disagree, and eventually her father nodded reluctantly.

 _Good_ , Merrain thought savagely, savouring the small victory. She could wait. It was, after all, what she was trained to do. Wait, and then strike when an opportunity presented itself.  
And it wasn’t every day that you came across the opportunity to hunt Emrys himself.  

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

CHAPTER 1

 

“You made… wheels?” Gwaine asked, dumbfounded.

“That is generally what being a wheeler means, Gwaine,” Elyan said drily, swinging his practice armour up onto the table with a muted _clang_.

“What did you think I did before I came to Camelot?” Percival asked, scowling mutinously as he shucked off his own sleeveless mail.

“I dunno,” Gwaine admitted, crunching into his apple thoughtfully. “I just sought of assumed that you ploughed fields, or stabbed people for a living like Lancelot, or something.”

“Lancelot didn’t _stab people for a living_ ,” Leon rebuked, and Gwaine waved one hand dismissively.

“Whatever.” Then he chuckled, stretching his aching arms out languidly. “At least no-one would have short changed you, not for fear of being decked.”

“Percival made wheels. I was a smith. What did you do before you became a knight?” Elyan challenged. “Apart from wondering from tavern to tavern?”

Gwaine hesitated fractionally. “I hunted,” he said smoothly, chucking his apple core at Leon’s head. “And sold the pelts. And shouldn’t we be ganging up on mister Lord Noble, heir to House Bedivere over there? What did you do before you became a knight?”

Leon opened his mouth, then seemed to realise that _trained to be a knight_ didn’t count. “I… studied,” he said eventually. “Diplomacy. Battle tactics. Arithmetic.” His voice trailed off when he saw his companions’ amused expressions. “Well, how many of you can speak three languages?” he demanded.

“Merlin speaks four,” Gwaine countered.

“There’s a thought,” Percival interjected. “What do you reckon Merlin was like before he came to Camelot?”

The four of them paused for a moment, trying to imagine a Merlin that didn’t tag around after Arthur all day. “Small,” Gwaine said eventually. “He would have been small.” Although, now he thought of it, he actually had no idea how old Merlin had been when he’d started living in the capital.

“He actually did live in a farming village, didn’t he?” Elyan asked thoughtfully. “Ealdor, or something.”

“How does a boy from a farming village learn four languages?”

“Gaius,” Percival said sagely. Then he cocked his head to the side curiously. “Gwaine? What’s Merlin’s last name?”

Gwaine froze, taken aback. “Um… it’s…” He wracked his brain, certain that he must have heard it at some point, and felt an odd, queasy sensation in his stomach when he drew up a blank. How did he not know his first friend’s last name? “Do you know, I have no idea. Leon? You’ve known him the longest.”

“I never…” the knight stuttered, and he didn’t have to finish. The four of them exchanged uncomfortable glances, the realisation that not one of them had ever bothered to find out such a basic piece of information about their friend souring the previously boisterous mood.

“Well, let’s go ask him,” Gwaine said after a few moments, and his friends shrugged in acquiescence, throwing the last few pieces of practice equipment onto racks before grabbing their swords and shrugging on fresh shirts, chucking the old ones into a hamper for the servants to collect. Even Leon didn’t baulk at the idea of skiving off for an hour or two, and Gwaine wondered in passing if they weren’t having a bad influence on him. But it was late afternoon, and no-one would be needing them anytime soon, so the four knights piled out into the corridors; laughing, mock-fighting to stretch out their aching muscles, and swapping theories as to what Merlin’s full name might be, fuelled by their curiosity and restlessness. Elyan mentioned Gwen saying something about Merlin heading down into the Lower City on errands for Gaius, so that was the general direction in which they headed.

“I mean, his mum named him after a bird,” Gwaine pointed out as they wandered out into the castle courtyard, waving to another passing band of knights as they went. “I bet his last name’s something like Cassiopus, or Gwendolau.”

“I don’t see him having a Roman last name,” Percival disagreed quietly, vetoing the first suggestion. The knight just shrugged when he received three questioning glances. “It’s just a feeling,” he muttered. “He just seems too connected to _this_ land.”

It was an odd thing to say, but Gwaine let it go. Percy was a bit odd sometimes, to be honest. “Where did Gwen say our walking enigma was headed, Elyan? My muscles are aching from wiping the floor with you lot, I don’t really fancy wandering the entire city.”

Elyan shoved him good-naturedly, and Gwaine would have shoved back if Leon hadn’t immediately pinned him with a pre-emptive disapproving glare. “Yes, mother,” he muttered as Elyan shrugged, dodging around a cart-load of squawking fowl.

“I think she said the markets,” he called over the ruckus, nodding as the farmer tipped his hat respectfully. With nothing better to go on, and no desire to return to being cooped up in the castle, they adjusted their course through the city’s streets accordingly. It didn’t take them long to reach the markets, located near to the castle as they were to maximise on potential trade from the nobility at the top of the hill. The city was teeming with activity at this time, just edging on evening – farmers were returning from the fields, children running to and fro with reckless abandon before the lighting of the night-watch fires signalled their curfews, and folk scrambling for the night’s dinner or looking to pilfer the last of the day’s sales from their neighbouring stall owners. If it hadn’t been for the crimson cloaks around their shoulders, the four of them would have been shoving their way through the throng and hoping not to get trodden on or mown down. As it was, the crowds flowed respectfully out around them in two separate streams by some unspoken consent; and while it made him distinctly uncomfortable, Gwaine also found himself grateful for the small respite from the shouting, arguing crush of humanity.

“How are we going to find him in all this?” Leon queried, pitching his voice over the shrill cries of hawkers and looking distinctly surprised by the hubbub around them. Gwaine didn’t answer straight away, instead making a bee-line for the herb-seller that he knew Merlin and Gaius favoured, a grin splitting his face.

“I’d say that’s him there.”

He saw Elyan and Percival exchange amused glances as the four of them pushed forwards, making for the opposite side of the market. It wasn’t so hard to pick Merlin out from the crowd, after all – first and foremost because of his height, but also because their friend was currently gesticulating wildly with both gangly arms, shouting at the top of his voice to be heard by the stall owner.

“-sticklewort isn’t even fresh, it’s at least a week old. And those leaves have been bruised!” Gwaine heard him call, sounding wounded. “You haven’t tried to push this sort of product on me since I was starting out! That’s not worth half what you’re asking!”

“Supply and demand, Merlin,” the vendor yelled back hotly. “If we hadn’t had so many wars, maybe I’d be able to accept what you’re offering, but the forests don’t increase their production like an armourer every time someone turns up with an immortal army. I have plenty of other buyers who’d be happy to take this off of my hands!”

The knights halted a few metres away, lingering in the shade of another stall and listening with bemused interest as Merlin shook his head firmly, his eyes lit up with the challenge. “None as regular as us. And I could always go and pick the herbs myself – I’m sure that I could find the time, if I can’t find anything for the right price in the city.”

“Not with all that’s happening up in the castle, you can’t,” the seller argued. “I know how much you’ve got on your plate, Merlin, and don’t you try and deny it. Besides, you’re exaggerating. The sticklewort was picked four days ago, and it’s perfectly useable.”

Merlin heaved a put upon sigh, throwing his hands up. “I can’t do it. I’ll just have to go out to the forest. Tonight, maybe – I should finish my chores before midnight, and there might not be too many bandits around, with all the extra patrols.”

Gwaine grinned as the servant made to walk away, and the herb-seller pursed her lips in disapproval. “Merlin. _Merlin_! Get back here. Fine! I’ll meet you in the middle, but not a copper less.”

Merlin spun on his heel, a beatific smile lighting his previously resigned face. “Deal,” he laughed, bounding back through the crowd with practiced ease, and Gwaine somehow got the feeling that this was an old routine. The two squabbled over how many leaves of this and that Merlin was owed, and once they were packaged and Merlin had slipped the parcel into his jacket, counting out the coppers that he owed, the servant bid farewell to the merchant with a smile. Shaking his head – because, no matter what people thought, Merlin really was a conniving little fiend when he wanted to be – Gwaine made to intercept him, a laugh and a joke ready and waiting on his lips. Both died when the man materialized out from the crowd behind his friend, somehow standing out from the rest of the throng.

Maybe it was the weaponry that he had gone to such great lengths to conceal, the outlines of hilts and blades barely visible through tight, travel-stained clothing. Maybe it was the even more poorly hidden hunger in the man’s eyes, directed squarely at the back of Merlin’s head, and the predatorial way that he held himself – or perhaps just a general feeling of familiarity, like a half-remembered dream. Whatever the reason, Gwaine found his grin fading, replaced by a small, confused frown, and his focus moving past Merlin and zeroing in on the man. He heard Leon call his name and realised that he had faltered in his stride, before vaguely waving off the other knight’s concern.

He knew that man. And his instincts were screaming at him to _run_.

The man moved, quick and smooth, and Gwaine reacted on instinct more than conscious thought, roaring Merlin’s name and urgently shoving people out of his way, bulling through the crowd towards them and sending indignant city-folk spilling to the side or tripping into stalls and crates. He heard the rest of the knights’ surprised cries as though through water, watching in seeming slow motion as Merlin’s head swivelled towards him, a smile lighting his friend’s face and tapering off just as quickly with the realisation that something was very wrong. Both men, prey and predator, reacted immediately to Gwaine’s warning shout. He saw Merlin twist away towards the threat, his features slipping into a walled grimace – an expression that Gwaine had never seen in residence there before – where there should have been surprise or confusion. The other man cursed, taking in the red cloaks and sliding something bright and golden into his pockets, replacing it with a short bladed knife that, even from this distance, Gwaine could see was deadly sharp.

The man lunged. Merlin stepped back, his hands coming up slightly as though to shield himself – but there were too many people pressing in around him for the servant to truly evade the blade, and Gwaine suddenly realised that he wasn’t going to get there quick enough to change how this would inevitably play out.

Except. The man missed.

Merlin didn’t step out of the way, and if anyone bumped into the man and threw him off course, Gwaine didn’t see them. The knife simply sailed past Merlin’s ribs, far too close for comfort – and then Gwaine erupted from the crowd and drove his shoulder into the man’s sternum with as much force as he could muster and an audible _crack_ , throwing him off of his feet and three feet backwards into the oblivious throngs.

Someone – it might have been the herb-seller – screamed. Gwaine ignored them, his breath coming short and quick as the adrenalin surged through his system, and his eyes flicking back and forth as he tried to pick out any further threats amidst their surroundings, moving from face to face and back again as the people around them hastened to scurry out of the vicinity of the sudden burst of violence. Only when none appeared did he realise that his hand was on his sword and his lips were pulled back in a low snarl – and only when he had smoothed his features and straightened out of his fighting stance did he turn back towards his friends.

Leon and Elyan were standing over the moaning attacker, swords drawn and pointed at his – slightly dented – chest. Percival was standing protectively by Merlin, shielding their friend from any other potential assailants with his bulk while the servant peeked out around him – looking decidedly indifferent to his own wellbeing, and more focused on Gwaine’s. All four of them were throwing him glances that ranged from concerned to outright wary, and he forced himself to calm.

“Alright, Merlin?” he called quietly, and the smaller man shrugged, smiling nervously as he gestured to the man on the ground.

“Better than he is, thanks to you.”

“What the _hell_ just happened?” Elyan demanded, but Merlin looked just as nonplussed as the rest of them.

“We need to find the king,” Leon interrupted sharply, eying the man glaring up at him in distaste, and tilting his head towards the gawking crowd – and Gwaine found himself addressed by the First Knight of Camelot, rather than by Leon, his friend. They were all getting far too accustomed to slipping into that battle-ready mode at the drop of a hat, he thought uneasily. “Percival, get him up. Are you sure that you’re not hurt, Merlin?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin said firmly, but something in his voice didn’t quite ring true with Gwaine, and he peered around Percival to get a better look at where he’d seen the blade skate past Merlin’s side.

“Your jacket’s torn, mate.”

The servant glanced down in surprise, as though noticing the rip for the first time. “It’s nothing. Just a nick. Gaius can patch me up.”

Gwaine exchanged a glance with Leon, who pursed his lips disapprovingly. Gwaine shrugged. Merlin would be Merlin.

“Someone attacked the king’s manservant in the heart of the city. That’s hardly nothing,” Leon said in clipped tones, looking equal parts shaken and angry. “Gwaine, stick with him. Take him straight to Gaius, and keep an eye out. Percival can go with you. We’ll make sure that _this_ ,” here the first knight toed their new prisoner, who glared up at them defiantly, “gets to the cells for Arthur to question.”

“I don’t think Arthur would mind if he tripped into something hard. Repeated-”

“Leon!”

Gwaine glanced over sharply at Elyan, who had dropped to his knees by the attempted murderer’s side. The man twitched, his eyes suddenly glazing and an odd, euphorically defiant grimace twisting his face, and the knight realised that mentioning questioning may not have been the best idea on Leon’s part.

“Poison,” he said shortly, kneeling beside Elyan and trusting Percival to keep an eye on Merlin as the man began to choke on his own laughter, foam flecking the up-turned corners of his mouth. “He must have had some sort of capsule-”

“You! Ma’am!” Leon shouted, beckoning to Merlin’s herb-seller, who was watching with open horror from the safety of her stall. “If you have anything that could be used as an antidote, now would be a good time!”

“I- I don’t know what sort of poison…” the lady stuttered, wringing her hands.

“Here.” Merlin appeared across from them before anyone could stop him, kneeling on the cobbles and pulling greenery from his jacket’s pockets. “Make him eat this-”

All four knights dove at the same time, shouting at him to _get back_ , but the dying man moved quicker, lunging upwards and wrapping both hands around Merlin’s throat with a kind of manic strength that shouldn’t have been possible considering the way his breath wheezed and his eyes rolled around in their sockets. Gwaine didn’t hesitate, driving his fist hard into the other man’s jaw as Percival grabbed his hands and pried them forcibly away from their choking friend, and Leon and Elyan took Merlin by the shoulders and hauled him backwards, sputtering and clawing for breath.

The man wheezed a giggle, flopping back onto the ground with a shudder the moment Merlin was out of range. Gwaine would have punched him again if Percival hadn’t placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, shaking his head and glancing over at Merlin. Both Leon and Elyan had a supporting hand resting protectively on his shoulders, keeping him sitting upright as the servant fought to get his breathing back under control, eyes wide with shock. Something red and viscous had started leaking out of the tear in his jacket with the sudden movement.

“Bloody hell,” Elyan swore, watching in horrified fascination as the man heaved a gasp and went still, his strength expended and his expression freezing in a rictus grin. Gwaine’s hands fluttered almost absent-mindedly, and something golden and gleaming transferred itself into his own pockets before anyone could catch the movement. He stood and strode over to Merlin, offering his hand and helping his friend gently to his feet. The servant nodded his thanks, and Leon and Elyan stood with them, the three of them forming a sort of living wall shielding Merlin from the gazes of their muttering audience of city-folk.

“I’ll get him out of here,” Gwaine said quietly, thinking fast. “You take care of the body.”

“Go quick. And be careful,” Leon cautioned, and Gwaine nodded, tightening his hold on his still wheezing friend as Merlin bent over slightly, holding one hand to his throat. Forget something hard. If anyone else so much as looked at Merlin the wrong way, they’d find themselves running repeatedly into something sharp and metallic. He’d see to that.

He beckoned to Percival, and the bigger man took Merlin’s other arm. Together they steered him around and began towing him in the direction of the castle, away from the staring crowd. Rumour would be running rampant by morning, Gwaine knew. All that they could do was get Merlin out of sight as quickly as possible, and trust Leon and Elyan to disperse the crowd.

No-one spoke more than a word or two all the way back to the castle, too caught up in searching the lengthening evening shadows for something that didn’t belong, hurrying past and refusing to acknowledge the odd glances that people sent their way. The two knights stuck to Merlin’s side like limpets, despite his half-hearted, hoarse protests. That half an hour earlier they had been laughing and joking seemed surreal; and while Gwaine didn’t know what the other two were thinking, his own thoughts kept drifting back to one simple question. Why?

The golden weight in his pocket suddenly seemed three times heavier – and he found himself wondering what the _hell_ Merlin had gotten into. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit more introspective, but it's very important plot-wise for several reasons (none of which I shall disclose at this time :D). Enjoy!

“Where is he?”

Gwaine looked up sharply, then relaxed as the king burst through the door and into Gaius’ chambers, Percival trailing sheepishly behind him. Merlin startled at the sudden intrusion, and Gwaine allowed himself a chuckle at the expression on Gaius’ face as the movement upset his careful stitching.

“Here, sire,” the physician said drily. “And if you wish it to remain so, I would recommend not making him move around while there’s a needle sticking through his side.”

Arthur had the good grace to look guilty, hovering awkwardly and with poorly hidden relief at the sight of his manservant upright and apparently none the worse for his near stabbing. “Who did you upset at the tavern this time, Merlin?” he demanded after a few moments, and the servant grimaced, holding rock steady as Gaius went back to poking the needle rhythmically through his flesh and pointing one finger towards his bruised throat.

“Gaius says that he shouldn’t talk for a few hours,” Gwaine filled in, flicking his hair back and leaning casually against the wall. “Something about nearly being throttled.” Merlin eyed him in a way that promised violence – or, at the very least, worms mysteriously appearing in his apples. Gwaine grinned back.

“Which again raises the point of _why_ he was nearly throttled in the first place,” Arthur replied, crossing his arms. “Percival didn’t say much about it – just that you saw the man first, Gwaine.”

Gwaine’s smile flickered. “I just saw some guy with a knife glaring at the back of Merlin’s head. Call it an instinct from one too many bar fights. And Merlin says that he’d never seen the man before.”

The king snorted, seeming to dismiss the matter of Gwaine’s sudden intuition. “I suppose there’s no way of keeping this quiet,” Arthur said mournfully, and Percival shook his head, speaking up for the first time.

“The entire marketplace saw the whole thing, sire.”

“Damn,” Arthur swore, running a hand distractedly through his hair. “We’ll have to play it off as a random mugging, or something. We’re damn lucky that the four of you were there. The delegation from Powys will be here tomorrow – I don’t want anything to upset the negotiations.” He turned to glare at Merlin, as though it was somehow his fault, and the servant scowled back.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking. Prat.”

“Don’t talk,” Gaius admonished, reaching for a roll of bandages. “Sire, for all we know it _was_ a random mugging. We won’t know more until I can look at the body of the man who did this.”

“Except for the bit with the poison. And that should be him now,” Gwaine interjected, hearing the distinctive sound of Elyan cursing drifting up the stairwell. A moment later the door barged open again, and Leon and Elyan stumbled through, each carrying one end of Merlin’s attacker’s corpse.

“Put him over there,” the physician called, showing zero discomfort at the arrival of a dead body within his home as the knights gratefully relinquished their cargo to the care of the indicated bench. “There you are, my boy,” Gaius said, turning back to Merlin. “You were right, it’s only shallow. Just try not to get into any more life or death situations for a day or two.”

The look that Merlin threw his mentor said exactly what he thought about the likelihood of being able to keep to that suggestion.

“You’re sure that you don’t know him, Merlin?” the king asked quietly, scrutinising the dead man with a morbid curiosity that Gwaine kind of understood. That was the face of the man who had tried to kill Merlin – to stab him in the middle of his home, where he should have been safe, and then to strangle him even as Merlin tried to save the man’s life. It was an odd thing to reconcile.

Merlin shook his head, disturbingly mute. The king nodded, troubled, and turned back to Gaius. “Would you be able to examine him, Gaius? We need to know who he is, and what he sought to gain from this.” The uncomfortable _and whether this is to do with more than just Merlin_ went unsaid.

“Of course, sire.”

The six of them watched with macabre absorption as Gaius began his inspection of the corpse – declaring the poison used (hemlock) and stating (much to Arthur’s evident disbelief) that the antidote Merlin had tried to administer would have been completely effective, if only he had been able to use it; then sifting through the man’s pockets and turning up sleeves in a search for any identifying marks, tattoos or papers. He methodically piled what he found to one side. No tattoos, but several interesting devices and amulets previously hidden in pockets and even sewn into hems appeared on the scuffed wood – and with every one that Gaius discovered, Gwaine felt the icy feeling in the bottom of his stomach grow.

Gaius blanched white when he pulled one particular crystal from within the man’s jacket lining. “What, Gaius?” Arthur demanded, watching like a hawk. “What is it?”

The sense of foreboding in the room increased five-fold as the physician eased himself shakily down into a chair. Merlin, still seated silently off to the side with his thin chest smothered in bandages and a bowl of thin soup that he had procured seemingly from thin air clutched in one hand, stared at the crystal as though it were a snake. Gwaine couldn’t say that he blamed him.

“It’s a magical device, sire,” Gaius said carefully, holding the odd, clear crystal tightly. “One with many uses. For example, it can be locked onto the signature of a certain person and used to find them, if you have something of theirs with which to attune it. Or it can be used to tell whether a person is telling the truth.” The physician reached out and carefully placed the device on the table, withdrawing his fingers as though burned, and said no more. Gwaine couldn’t help staring.

Gaius had just lied.

Lied by omission, true. But he’d still lied.

“Are you saying that this man was a sorcerer?” the king queried, and Gaius shook his head.

“It’s unlikely, sire. No magic is required to actually use it. Or any of these instruments, actually. They all run off of the magic they were imbued with at the time of their creation.”

“That’s some good news,” Elyan muttered with heart-felt relief.

From his expression, Gwaine got the impression that the king had actually been hoping that they could just believe it had been some psychotic sorcerer acting for unfathomable reasons known only to himself. “If the crystal could be used for tracking, it’s highly likely that this man was looking for Merlin in particular,” Arthur said hesitantly, with something approaching guilt – obviously uncomfortable with the idea of anyone actively searching for his servant. The king glanced sidelong at Merlin, who did his best impersonation of a puppy dog; innocent and oblivious. “If it can be used for truth-telling… we have to consider that whoever is behind this was looking for information. Possibly concerning the summit.”

“Merlin does know an awful lot about what’s going on around here,” Gwaine pointed out, quelling the guilt that rose up in his gut at the misdirection. His traitorous fingers fluttered against the cool weight by his side. “They must have thought he’d be an easy target.”

“But why try to kill him then?” Leon argued logically, and out of the corner of his eye Gwaine saw Merlin shrink further back into his cot. It couldn’t have been fun, to be mute for all intents and purposes while the entire room was discussing him. “If they wanted information, surely they would have tried to take him.”

“He only pulled the knife when he saw us,” Percival said quietly. “I think he panicked.”

The king was quiet for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the crystal, and Gwaine wondered where his thoughts were going, what conclusions he was reaching. “You’ll keep examining these… devices, and report back, Gaius?” he said eventually, and the physician nodded, bowing slightly.

“Of course, sire.”

“Very well.” The king paused again, as though reaching a decision. “The summit must go ahead. If we can reach a treaty, it will benefit both kingdoms immensely. But I want to know what happened today. Investigate quietly. And, Merlin?” The servant cocked his head to the side questioningly. “Don’t go down into the city alone until this is all cleared up. Take Gwaine with you if you have to leave the castle at all. Do you understand?”

Merlin managed to say several uncomplimentary things at once with his eyes. Arthur snorted. “And cover up your neck. No need to give the delegation any more reason to gossip.”

“Your concern is touching, sire,” Merlin managed to rasp, and Gaius glared at him icily.

“You’re the idiot who went and sat next to the man who’d just tried to stab you,” Arthur retorted, but his eyes softened. “Get some rest, Merlin. He’ll be alright for tomorrow?” Gaius nodded after a moment’s hesitation. “Good. I’ll send someone for the body.” With a nod, the king turned and strode from the room, his brow furrowed and the knights trooping after him in various states of thoughtfulness – trusting that Merlin would be safe here, in the heart of the citadel.

Gwaine glanced over at Merlin before shoving off of his wall, offering his friend a small smile and getting a weary one and a mouthed ‘thank you’ in return. His eyes slid to the amulets on the table of their own accord before he exited after the rest of the knights.

What he wouldn’t give, not to know what that crystal was – and what it meant.

“Thank you,” Arthur said quietly, once they’d left Gaius’ chambers and there was no chance of their being overheard by its remaining occupants. Gwaine started in surprise. “You’re quick-thinking today saved a life. You each acted admirably.”

“It’s Gwaine you should really be thanking, sire,” Leon replied as the five of them hurried down the staircase, headed for the castle proper. “He was already moving before the rest of us had realised that anything was wrong. If it wasn’t for him, Merlin would be dead.” Leon gave him a small smile that Gwaine reciprocated tightly. “I’m still not sure how you spotted the danger.”

“I told you,” Gwaine shrugged offhandedly. “It was just a feeling.”

“It was kind of frightening, to be honest,” Elyan muttered, off to the side.

“Whatever it was, it’s a bloody good thing it happened,” Arthur said firmly. Then he grinned, trying to make light of the situation. “You’ve been hanging round Merlin too long. His funny feelings are starting to rub-off.”

“Worse things have been known to happen,” Gwaine joked automatically.

“True. You will keep an eye on him, won’t you? He’s taking it all far too well. It’s unnerving.”

True enough. In Gwaine’s experience, murder attempts were usually met with a good deal more hysteria on the part of the intended murderee. But then, Merlin rarely reacted as one would expect. To anything. “Of course,” he said absently, suddenly remembering the reason that they had been down in the Lower City to start with. “Arthur? What’s Merlin’s last name?”

It was only a casual aside, a point of curiosity that had ceased to seem quite so important. So Gwaine was not expecting the king’s expression to tighten, his smile no longer reaching his eyes; nor the tart response that he got.

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” Arthur’s smile faded, replaced by a frown. “Now, Leon, about the preparations for tomorrow…”

It was hardly subtle, but Leon dutifully began conversing about last minute arrangements and time schedules. The other knight’s brow was creased, though, as they strode down the last of the steps and into the vaulted corridors, where torchlight threw strange shadows and the dying light of day retreated back through windows and out across the horizon. Gwaine shrugged at the questioning looks that Elyan and Percy snuck his way, just as miffed at the odd reaction. It wasn’t lost on any of them that the king made his excuses at the earliest opportunity, retreating in the direction of his chambers with an irritated expression and last minute orders concerning when and where they should arrive in the morrow.

“That was strange,” Elyan muttered once Arthur had disappeared.

“He’s just worried about the summit,” Leon said firmly, belaying any speculation. “And he’s right. We should all be focusing on tomorrow, and making sure everything goes smoothly.”

“And on making sure that Merlin doesn’t get murdered,” Gwaine added, and Leon grinned tiredly.

“Yes. That too.”

Somehow, though, Gwaine had a feeling that preventing future murder attempts would be harder than anyone else assumed.

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

The moment Arthur and the knights had left their chambers, Gaius shut the door with a quiet _click_ , his wrinkled hands unsteady and wracked by small tremors.

“Gaius-”

“I was being serious about not talking, Merlin,” his guardian said automatically, but Merlin could tell that his heart wasn’t really in it. “You recognised the crystal, I presume?”

Merlin nodded. He’d seen illustrations of several of the instruments sitting piled on the table before, on the pages of his magic book, and in various other texts of dubious legality that Gaius kept hidden around their apartments. All of the ones that he recognised related to magic, in one way or another. That one in particular –

“It’s used to find magic users, isn’t it?” he rasped painfully.

Gaius made his way back over to his chair, sinking into it with world-weary exhaustion. “I wish that were all that it did. Crystals that only detect magic while it is in use are easy enough to evade, particularly if you have prior warning. This, however, is a soulstone; much more… specialised, and very difficult to come across, even if it does have a rather limited range of perception. It tracks _sources_ of magic, rather than the magic itself.”

Merlin frowned. “Like… the Crystal Cave, or-”

“Or like a warlock.”

“…oh.” That made a sort of disturbing sense, he supposed. He’d always known his magic was different to that of regular magic-users. He’d never thought that he could be _tracked_ , though. Suddenly he felt a whole lot less safe. What if _Morgana_ got her hands on something like that? “So… he was looking for people like me in particular, not just sorcerers. But he’s dead, Gaius. He failed.”

Gaius shook his head seriously. “Very few people have access to tools like this, Merlin. The few soulstones still in existence have become almost exclusive property of the most powerful witch-finding families, the ones that sprung up amongst the nobility of Escetia and Caerleon after the Purge. Not like Aredian,” the physician said quickly, perhaps seeing the disdain on Merlin’s face. Whatever grief the witch-finder had caused them, Merlin was certain that if he were to face another of Aredian’s ilk they would not find him so unprepared. “You and I both know that he was little more than a charlatan. These people are much more dangerous. And they don’t take kindly to the deaths of their own.”

Merlin shrugged uncomfortably. “You don’t think that he was alone?”

Gaius huffed in frustration. “I don’t know. It’s possible. But if one person could track you down, and this was not the only soulstone in their possession…”

Merlin didn’t reply, his throat finally rebelling against further speech. Excellent. Just what he needed. Some sect of fanatic magic hunters trying to kill him – because, after all, there were only so many murder attempts that he could pass off as enemies of Camelot trying to get information out of him. As if the visiting dignitaries from Powys wouldn’t give him enough to worry about. Someone _always_ tried to kill Arthur during political meetings.

“Just be careful, Merlin,” Gaius said wearily, after a few moments of silence. “Maybe this was an isolated incident. But if it wasn’t… it won’t be like someone trying to go through you to get to Arthur. Witch-finders aren’t like assassins or warlords, or even other sorcerers. They’re trained specifically neutralise people like us – they’ll know exactly what they’re dealing with. They won’t underestimate you.”

“So I shouldn’t underestimate them.” Merlin broke off coughing, the jagged movement like sandpaper against his abused throat. Gaius appeared next to him, handing over a cup of water, which he accepted gratefully.

“You should get some rest,” Gaius suggested, watching with poorly concealed worry as he slowly got his breathing back under control. “If you oversleep tomorrow, Arthur won’t be happy.”

Merlin grimaced. That was one way of putting it. The other included shouting and the stocks. Then he froze, suddenly grasping the full meaning of Gaius’ description of the witch-finders.

“Gaius? If they’re part of the nobility… what’s to stop them from going to Arthur for help?”

The look that Gaius gave him was one part sympathy and two parts fear – as though he were seriously considering telling Merlin to run, and not look back. “Nothing, Merlin. Nothing save politics, and perhaps pride.”

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

Unsurprisingly, Merlin did not sleep well that night.

But then, he hadn’t slept well in a very long time. And the nightmares weren’t helping.

Night horrors were, he supposed, an inevitable side-effect of this life of wars and fighting, of lies and death – and of having had his own death-sentence hanging over his head for the past six years. He’d always had them, even as a child, but they seemed to have gotten worse since Arthur had pulled Excalibur from the stone. Every night, now, he dreamed, until it had gotten to the point where he almost feared unconsciousness.

So he supposed that this latest batch of danger and death had relatively little to do with his restlessness, really.

He stared up at the ceiling, listening to the quiet murmurs and booted footsteps as the promised guards arrived to remove the body of the assassin from their chambers – for burial or burning, depending on how much spare time could be scrounged together by the servants. Faint moonlight crept in through his window, enough that he wasn’t in total darkness, for which he was grateful. If he’d looked out through the window, he would have seen Camelot in all its moon-washed glory, pale and quiet. Maybe he would have seen the torch-fires of knights patrolling the streets, keeping watch for all things lurking and unwelcome. He doubted that it would have made him feel any safer.

How would fire make him safe, when his dreams were filled with the smoke of the pyre? How were red cloaks and gleaming swords comforting, when in his mind they waded through an ocean of his own people, cutting them down like wheat while magical families begged for Emrys to save them, calling out for him to fulfil his destiny and cursing him when he did not?

How was seeing Camelot at peace meant to reassure him, when the moment he closed his eyes he saw it burning?

It used to be that he dreamed of Arthur finding out his secrets, and the consequences of his deception. Now it seemed that his subconscious mind was determined to torment him with penalty of putting Arthur first.

How could he protect his people, if Arthur, their prophesized saviour, was dead?

But what was the point of saving Arthur if he never repealed the ban on magic?

Merlin pushed himself up into a sitting position, abandoning any pretence of attempting to find sleep’s embrace, and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to ignore the sharp twinging in his side where the movement pulled at the stitches. If the knights hadn’t been there today… If Gwaine hadn’t spotted the danger… If someone had seen him nudge the man’s blade off course and recognised the magic for what it was… If, if, if. If he hadn’t reacted fast enough, they would have been cleaning his insides off of the cobbles. But even that would be better by far than the pyre.

Of all the ways that Arthur could discover his magic, a bounty-hunter appearing before the court and demanding the king’s aid in capturing the powerful warlock lurking in the citadel’s heart was just about one of the worst. It would almost be comical, to see Arthur’s reaction. Almost. What a pity, that running had long-since ceased to be an option.

The night was more than half over before any sort of uneasy rest claimed him. Had anyone been watching, they would have seen him toss and turn, twitching at invisible dangers and catastrophes.

He was not, however, the person whom sleep eluded. In another part of the citadel, Gwaine stared moodily at the fire, bottles littering the floor of his chambers and a mug of wine clasped feverishly in one hand. Something golden gleamed innocuously amongst the debris, lying unharmed where it had landed after he’d thrown it at the wall with all of his strength and rage. Teasing him.

Dawn was peeking over the horizon by the time the knight rose from his stupor, nowhere near as drunk as he should have been. He lurched over to the bracer and scooped it up off of the ground, staring down at it for a moment – then he strode over to his dresser and buried it deep inside, beneath layers of cloth and leather, laying the tiny golden key next to it. He nodded to himself, decision made.

In the end, he supposed, there never truly had been any choice. Not for him, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. I'm not a hundred percent sure about the quality of this chapter. The next one should be better ^_^ Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last of the OCs are introduced, and we discover for certain what Gwaine thinks he's figured out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a while, but here's chapter 3! Enjoy!
> 
> **Warnings: Umm... some mild coarse language?**
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, if profit was being made I'd have bought a new laptop by now, beta'd by kichia437 ^_^

Merlin, as it turned out, had been right. The statement ‘Arthur was not happy’ proved to be one of the largest understatements in the history of Camelot.

Enraged might have been closer to the truth. Or perhaps ballistic. Luckily, it was not entirely aimed at Merlin; partially because he had the excuse for his lateness in that he had nearly been murdered the day before, but mainly because the king found a more convenient target for his ire in Gwaine. Attempted murder, after all, was reasonably common in Camelot.

“It’s barely midday,” the king hissed, just loud enough that Merlin and the queen could hear him. “Barely midday, and he can hardly stand up straight!”

Merlin shot a look at Gwen behind Arthur’s back, and she shrugged, as if to say _let him have his moment_. Arthur wasn’t wrong, in any case. Gwaine looked three different shades of awful, pale and drawn with dark shadows under his eyes, and a pounding headache judging by the way he was squinting at the pale light of the late afternoon. He’d been wobbling on the spot until Percival and Leon ruefully sandwiched their knight-brother between themselves, restoring to him a modicum of balance. Merlin tried not to frown, suppressing the worry that flashed through him. Something was wrong with his friend. Gwaine had refused to meet his eyes all morning, and he had a feeling that it was to do with more than yesterday’s near death experience.

“Maybe he was nervous,” Merlin muttered out of the corner of his mouth, fighting back a yawn that pulled at the sore muscles in his throat. He honestly doubted that he looked much better. He’d dreamed again the night before – and it seemed to him like the nightmares were getting worse in their intensity. What he wouldn’t give for one night’s uninterrupted _sleep_. At least he’d remembered to pin his neckerchief in place so that it covered up the blossoming bruises on his throat, he thought ruefully.

A message runner darted into the courtyard, sprinting across the cobbles and dropping into a bow before the king and queen. “One minute, Your Majesties,” the runner announced breathlessly, before darting away again before he could be thanked.

“It’s about damn time,” Merlin muttered, shifting his weight onto his back foot with a wince. Gwen snickered quietly behind one hand as Arthur turned to glare at him.

“If you make me laugh while the prince and princess are being announced, Merlin, so help me I’ll have you in the stocks the entire time that they’re here.”

“Yes, _sire_.”

He could have sworn that the sun had inched higher in the sky before the first, clacking hoof-steps echoed up the rise and into the courtyard. He found himself craning to see them, pulling back with a huff only when Arthur rebuked him quietly. He’d never seen the Powysi before. Very few people had. The kingdom was reclusive and entirely self-sufficient; foreigners never seemed to find reason to enter its borders. No-one was entirely sure why they’d extended the offer for a treaty to Camelot in particular, but Arthur, with his dream of united kingdoms, had naturally jumped at the opportunity.

The first horses appeared over the rise, and several dozen previously slouching knights, council members, and various other nobility straightened noticeably. Leon and Percival tightened their hold on Gwaine, pulling him subtly upright. Merlin saw Arthur and Gwen clasp hands tightly for a brief moment. Deciding that their attention was away from him for the moment, he started staring again, taking in every detail as the Powysi flooded into the courtyard.

The first thing that he noticed, as the delegation filed through the archways, was that the Powysi guards’ mounts were _enormous_. They would have towered over Camelot’s battle-horses by at least two hands, but they weren’t heavyset or cumbersome. Merlin was by no means an expert, but these horses were gorgeous; high-necked, leanly muscled and silken maned, stepping lightly and proudly over the cobbles, each and every one a variant of the same dove-grey hue.

The second thing he noticed was their riders. Powys was a good week’s ride away, moving fast. The men and women among the party should have been exhausted and travel-stained, but instead they sat at hawk-like attention, murmuring to their mounts as they pulled up short instead of shouting like most soldiers would have, taking in the courtyard and its occupants as though assessing for threats. He wasn’t entirely sure whether that made him impressed or suspicious.

Then, of course, he saw the prince and princess, seated in the centre of the procession, surrounded on all sides by eagle-eyed guards.

One thing that Merlin did know about Powys was the odd arrangement that existed between its two oldest heirs. The twins’ mother had had such a difficult time in the birthing, and the mid-wives had been so focused on keeping her alive, that no-one actually knew which of the two was the eldest. And while ordinarily the crown would default to the male child, Crown Prince Rhys had insisted from an early age that he and his twin, Crown Princess Heilyn, would rule together, as equals. Apparently the nightmare of succession that this resulted in had been solved quite simply – the child to be born first from either of their future marriages would become the next ruler. In any other case, this arrangement would have dissolved into murder or civil war in a fight over the throne. Not so in the case of the twins, who were said to be the best of friends and to rely heavily on each other’s judgement. Again, Merlin wasn’t sure whether he was impressed, or whether he should be searching for some sort of intrigue. Maybe the twins had decided that they didn’t want to share a kingdom after all. Maybe they had decided that one of them should rule Camelot instead.

Or he could just be becoming very, very cynical.

The twin’s horses were taller again than those of their guards’ by half a hand, dark grey instead of light. Even from here he could clearly tell their relation – the twins both had the same large, dark eyes, the same sharp cut features that lent strength to visages that would otherwise have been soft, the same delicate, heart-shaped faces. Both wore swords belted at their waists. As he watched, the pair glanced up past their guards towards Camelot’s royal party, friendly smiled dancing in their eyes. Merlin startled as the Powysi herald roared out above the clatter of hooves and the soft babble of voices, his voice baritone and demanding.

“The Crown Prince Rhys and Crown Princess Heilyn of Powys!”

“Camelot wishes the Crown Prince and Crown Princess a warm welcome,” Arthur called back, and Merlin didn’t need to see his face to know that his friend was fighting a smile. Various other pleasantries were exchanged at a distance, but Merlin tuned most of them out, having heard it all many times before. That was Arthur’s area of expertise. Eventually the twin’s dismounted, and suddenly people were rushing to and fro, guards assisting their leaders up to the stairs where they could be welcomed more personally by Arthur and Gwen, servants fetching horses and leading them to stables, or directing the Powysi retinue as to where they could find their own quarters or places to store supplies and their masters’ baggage. For once, Merlin was glad to find that he had little to do save stand behind Arthur as the king welcomed their guests, and try not to show the growing discomfort in his side. King’s personal manservant had to have _some_ perks, he supposed.

“King Arthur,” the princess called cheerfully, reaching the steps and pulling a shallow curtsey as her brother bowed beside her. “Queen Guinevere. It is a pleasure to meet the both of you. Our sincerest apologies that our father was not able to attend.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Gwen said kindly. “You must be tired.”

“Very, Your Majesty,” Rhys smiled widely. “The road was long. But I’m certain that our journey was worth it.”

“We have a feast ready and waiting for you and your retinue, as soon as you wish,” Arthur replied, but Merlin had ceased listening, fending off a small frown. His previous thoughts about cynicism reared their heads, but Merlin batted them back down, his much-exercised instincts taking the fore.

Because he could have sworn that, when the Crown Prince said the words ‘worth it’, his eyes had slid to Merlin’s. And both he and his sister had smiled.

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

Whatever anyone else seemed to think, Gwaine’s balance had _not_ been affected by his hangover to the extent that he required Leon and Percival’s subtle assistance in standing up straight throughout the entire _bleeding_ hour long process that entailed the arrival of the Powysi, as the two had apparently concluded. It wasn’t like he’d been about to topple off of the steps.

Although, that might have livened up the speeches and gift exchanges and whatever the hell else it was that the monarchs carried on with while the rest of them stood around aimlessly in the blazing high noon sun.

Whatever else he had to say about the process, however, even he couldn’t complain about the speed with which they were all bundled off to the Great Hall afterwards for the welcome feast. The castle servants, Merlin among them, had truly outdone themselves – in the absence of the need for candles, piles of intricately arranged spring-time flowers decorated the hall, scattered next to culinary delights that, at any other time, the knight would have happily demolished. Several bards had taken up residence in one of the corners, plucking lute strings and generally keeping the conversation and laughter flowing. And while there were several ladies amongst the visiting party of significant beauty, whom ordinarily he would have been scheming to woo, he found himself far more interested in observing the prince and princess, seated up at the high table presiding alongside Arthur and Gwen.

Heilyn seemed the more assertive of the two by far, steering the conversation like the professional stateswoman that she was while her brother watched and listened, adding the occasional comment that had Gwaine’s own monarchs nodding and smiling. The king and queen seemed comfortable with their guests – pleased, even, Gwaine thought. As well they should – the prince and princess had shown every sign of wishing to forge a lasting relationship with Camelot, charming their hosts with compliments and gifts from their homeland – fine horses, warm furs, weaponry forged in a fashion that Gwaine had never seen before. It was all diplomatic nonsense, of course; a show of what Camelot stood to gain from a trade agreement. But it was promising nonsense. No-one bothered to impress a neighbouring kingdom with trade goods unless they meant business.

There was just... _something_ about the pair that had seemed off from the minute they’d walked through the gates. Maybe it was the looks that passed between them when they thought no-one was looking, full of an almost predatory anticipation that seemed over the top for arranging a simple treaty. It was possible that he was being over-cautious. The word paranoid came to mind, but Gwaine happily ignored it, assisted by the warm buzz of alcohol. It was _possible_ that the alcohol was clouding his mind, and that he was imaging things.

But Gwaine didn’t think it was likely – because Merlin had noticed the looks too, and fidgeted uneasily every time he had to approach Rhys and Heilyn to refill their glasses. If there was one thing Gwaine had learned, it was to trust Merlin’s instincts above all else.

“All right there, Gwaine?”

Gwaine turned his attention blearily back to his own surroundings, noticing for the first time that his knight-brothers were watching him worriedly. They’d finished their own meals, he realised, and he briefly wondered how long they’d been trying to get his attention. “What?” he demanded defensively, noticing the disappointed look in Leon’s eyes – probably aimed at how far Gwaine had sunk into his cups, given that it was just edging past midday. Gwaine scowled. Let Leon judge him. It was none of their damn business, was it?

The knight opened his mouth to say so, but Percival beat him to it. “You’ve been glaring up at the table for over an hour, Gwaine,” he said quietly, pitching his voice below the raucous merriment around them. “And you’ve been acting strangely all morning. We’re worried, that’s all. Merlin thinks you’re avoiding him.”

Gwaine flushed, and threw back the remnants of whatever had been in his mug to hide it. The liquid was fiery and alcoholic, and that was all that mattered. He hadn’t been _avoiding_ Merlin, not exactly. In fact, he’d been watching him like a hawk, alternately making sure that the smaller man didn’t try to over-reach himself in his injured state – the servant had looked almost as haggard as Gwaine himself – and keeping an eye out for anything potentially murderous. He just hadn’t particularly wanted to talk to him, not until he figured out what he was going to say. Now Arthur, he _had_ been avoiding. Like the plague. “I’m fine,” Gwaine muttered, shoving the cup away angrily when it ran dry. “I just don’t feel much like celebrating. That’s all.”

He pretended to ignore the way they glanced between each other, like they were trying to figure out how best not to antagonise him. Gwaine snorted. No-one minded when Percival had one of his quieter days, figuring that he was remembering and mourning his family. No-one questioned it when Leon came back from training the new recruits and bolted himself in his chambers, wondering which one of the youths would be the first to lose his life in battle; or when Elyan went green at the sight of anything that slithered. But he didn’t want to wear the mask for _one damn day_ -

“Enjoy the party,” he ground out, shoving himself to his feet and feeling a vindictive sense of satisfaction when the abrupt movement nearly jolted Elyan out of his seat on the bench beside him. Leon went to protest, but Gwaine cut him off. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there in time for your _exercises_.” Again, with the political nonsense. Not only did they have to prove their worth as trading partners – apparently having each kingdoms’ warriors batter each other bloody as a way of getting to know each other would show their value as military allies as well.

“Gwaine-” Percy started, but Leon shook his head, and the bigger knight subsided, his brow creased. A twinge of guilt twisted in Gwaine’s stomach. His friend’s hadn’t done anything to deserve his foul mood, a small voice told him. He’d been all but ignoring them all day. Oddly enough, the voice sounded like Merlin.

He hesitated. “Look-”

“It’s okay,” Leon said firmly, shooting a glare at the courtier gawking at them from partway along their table. An argument, however small, amongst the Knights of the Round Table was undoubtedly gossip-worthy. “Get some rest if you can. We’re all wound tight. And, Gwaine?” Gwaine raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Leave off the drink. Get a clear head. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Gwaine mocked, throwing a salute and clambering over the bench and into the aisle. Before he could decide whether he would take Leon’s ‘order’ seriously or not, a hand snaked out and grabbed him by the elbow, and the knight glanced back in surprise.

“What?” he snapped, but Elyan didn’t let go, working his jaw like he was trying to figure out whether or not he should say something.

“It’s nothing important,” his knight-brother said hesitantly, glancing quickly up at the high table. “I just thought you’d like to know… I asked Gwen this morning what Merlin’s last name was, and she, umm… reacted the same way as Arthur. Kept changing the conversation, and when I persisted she told me it was none of my business. I don’t think she knows either.”

Gwaine blinked. He’d all but forgotten about their questions. “Oh,” he said eventually. “Um, thanks.” He clapped Elyan over the shoulder, staggering slightly as he pulled out of the other man’s grip. “Yeah,” he muttered. Great. More mysteries. He followed Elyan’s example and threw a searching look up at the head table, pausing when he noticed that the twins were rising.

Gwen and Arthur stood with them, all four royals fluttering and politely fobbing each other off in a manner that told him the prince and princess were attempting to retire. He paused, watching without really knowing why, as the king and queen acquiesced with such politeness that it was actually painful to watch, and the herald boomed out the notice that, regretfully, Heilyn and Rhys would be taking their leave to rest and recuperate from their journey before the evening’s touneys. Then he shrugged, turning his back on the high table and making good his escape from the obnoxious babble of the hall. Excellent timing. If the visiting dignitaries were leaving, his own absence wouldn’t even be considered rude.

Gwaine hardly spared a backwards glance for his fellows as he strode down the length of the hall, squeezing through the great doors and giving the guards outside a cursory nod. He blinked, for a moment almost forgetting which way his chambers were, and grimaced. Maybe Leon was right, and he should lay off the drink for a few hours. But without the soothing fog, his mind would start wandering, towards –

He shook his head irritably, and started walking at random. Maybe a nice stroll would help clear his mind. He could calm down, and then batter some hapless Powysi knight into the ground later to work off his anxiety. Rather liking that course of action, Gwaine almost ignored the voices floating up the corridor – until he recognised Merlin’s amongst them, sounding highly uncomfortable even from a distance.

Gwaine frowned. Merlin was supposed to be back at the feast. No way would Arthur let his servant skive off early. Almost of their own accord, his feet changed direction and started heading towards the voices, back past the great hall and in the general direction of the guest residences.

“– don’t know what you’re talking about, milady,” he heard Merlin’s voice say softly, in the tone that the servant reserved solely for people that he _had_ to be polite to, but sincerely wished to sass. Something prevented the knight from barging around the corner and rescuing his friend from whichever Powysi noble had decided to heckle him.

“I think you might… Merlin, was it?”

Gwaine froze. He wasn’t exactly familiar with her… but that had sounded like Princess Heilyn. Alarm bells started ringing in his head.

“You’ve never heard of the prophecy?” another, masculine voice queried politely. Rhys, Gwaine would have been willing to bet. “Unusual, for one of our kind.”

Gwaine’s heart skipped a beat, and he nearly groaned. Oh _surely_ not –

“Prophecies are not to be discussed lightly in Camelot, Your Highnesses,” Merlin said firmly. “And I don’t know what _kind_ you’re referring to. I would advise you against bringing it up again.” There was a moment’s silence, and Gwaine tensed, wondering if Merlin had gone too far in his admonishment of the foreign royalty.

Someone laughed quietly. “Of course. We were forgetting ourselves. If you don’t mind, Merlin, I’m sure that Rhys and I could find our own way to our chambers. Thank King Arthur for the thought, though.”

“Of course,” Merlin replied stiffly. Gwaine heard a single footfall, as though Merlin had gone to make his escape, but a second never came.

“And it would probably be best if no-one else heard about this conversation,” Rhys added quietly. There was a distinct note of threat to the statement.

To hell with it, Gwaine decided rashly, and he strode around the corner before Merlin could answer, making sure to stagger slightly as he paused and blinked stupidly, as though surprised to find anyone else outside of the great hall.

“Merlin,” Gwaine slurred cheerily, despite the fact that he found himself suddenly stone cold sober. He masked the tightening of his lips with a smile as his friend’s eyes flicked towards him and widened – but not, Gwaine noticed, with relief, despite the fact that Rhys had the servant’s arm caught in an iron grip. He smiled reassuringly and turned his attention towards the prince, who dropped the limb as though it had burned him.

“Sir Knight,” the prince said tautly, and Gwaine bowed in what he hoped was the proper fashion.

“Your Highnesses. The king sent me to fetch his servant. They need another of the old wine vintages brought up from the cellars. If that is acceptable.”

“It is,” Heilyn said graciously, slipping her brother a frown that Gwaine was undoubtedly not meant to catch. “We were just saying that we would be able to find our own way. Thank you, Merlin.”

Gwaine inclined his head, wondering if they knew enough about Camelot to realise that a knight being sent to find a servant during a diplomatic visit was highly irregular – even if that servant was Merlin. Not that he would have expected them to be aware of what he liked to call 'the Merlin Exception'. Deciding that he didn’t particularly care, the knight turned and caught Merlin’s eye, gesturing subtly with his head. The servant caught his meaning and scurried over to Gwaine’s side, bobbing a bow towards the prince and princess and muttering “Your Highnesses,” as he did so.

“We’ll be seeing you this afternoon, I presume, Sir Knight?” Heilyn queried, and Gwaine hesitated before nodding. “Excellent. I suppose we’ll see the both of you soon. Until then.”

“The best of luck,” Rhys added, holding Merlin’s gaze for a moment – and when Gwaine glanced down at his friend, he saw that Merlin’s eyes had glazed slightly, as though he were deep in concentration. The expression faded quickly, and the servant nodded once before the two royals turned and swept away, heads high, off down the corridor without a backwards glance. Gwaine waited until they were out of sight before putting a hand behind Merlin’s shoulder and propelling the smaller man quickly in the opposite direction.

“Gwaine,” Merlin protested, but the knight ignored him, searching up and down until he was certain that there was no-one in hearing distance.

“Are you okay, Merlin?” he asked quietly once he was sure, drawing to a halt.

“Yeah, I’m fine, they just…” Merlin trailed off, the first signs of the days strains making his voice hoarse, and Gwaine could almost see his friend trying to gauge how much the knight had heard. He’d never noticed the mask of wariness that slipped into place before, not until he’d thought to look for it. Something twinged uncomfortably again.

“Just..?”

“They were talking about the fights this afternoon, discussing their probability of winning. Apparently they thought they had a… a very high chance. I mouthed off.” Gwaine startled at the blatant lie, and Merlin must have misinterpreted it, because he hurried to add, “I know, it was stupid. He wasn’t going to hurt me, though.”

Gwaine smiled painfully. It actually wasn’t all that stupid a cover-up. Ordinarily, he would have been too insulted by the Powysis’ assessment of Camelot’s forces to bother questioning further. “I guess we’ll just have to prove them wrong, then, hey mate?” he forced himself to joke, clapping Merlin over the back. “Just as long as you’re alright. You’re meant to be taking it easy.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin repeated, with a smile every bit as forced as Gwaine’s own. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ve got to… does Arthur actually need the wine?”

Gwaine grimaced. "Nah, I just made that up." He paused, and Merlin fidgeted uncomfortably. "I should go rest up for this afternoon," the knight added, and relief washed over his friend's face.

“Sure. I’ll see you there.” Merlin hesitated, then turned to dart away, and, not sure what else to do, Gwaine decided to push his luck.

“Merlin? What did Rhys mean by ‘our kind’?”

He regretted it instantly. Merlin tensed up, almost tripping over his own feet. “Pardon?” he squeaked, and Gwaine found himself wondering how on earth his friend had managed to keep his secret this long. Then he re-evaluated that assessment. After all, Gwaine had never figured it out, had he? He tried again, pushing just a little bit.

“The prince said something about ‘our kind’.”

“You must have heard wrong,” Merlin said firmly. “Sorry, Gwaine, I really need to go.”

The knight didn’t try to stop him as Merlin turned and scurried off, looking thoroughly shaken. He ran a hand through his hair, cursing softly. It wasn’t like Merlin had been going to just open up and say ‘oh, yes, well, he was referring to the illegal magic which I may or may not be practicing behind everyone’s backs, depending on how you look at the evidence.” Because that, Gwaine realised with a chill, would also mean that the prince and princess were magic users – which would stir up a whole other breed of shit-storm.

Damn. He’d probably given Merlin a heart attack. Gwaine hovered forwards a few steps, wondering if he should run after his friend and confront him about his newfound maybe-knowledge. The same thought had been turning over in his mind all morning, every time he looked at Merlin, or at the other friends – the knights, Gwen, _Arthur_ – that he was now betraying with his silence. What did he do with knowledge like that? He’d already made up his mind not to turn Merlin in – but did he just pretend that nothing had changed?

He may have reached any number of conclusions, but it was not to be – because, at that precise moment, someone started screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I evil? 
> 
> ...yes. Yes I am.
> 
> So, the magic users of unknown loyalties have been introduced. Yeah, I'm not even trying to hide it. Those two are suss. Aaand, Gwaine's figuring it out! Next chapter; another shoddy assasination attempt, Arthur is oblvious, the Powysi and the knights try to batter each other to pieces, and Merlin goes into damage control. Poor Merlin. See you then :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys and Heilyn reveal their true intentions.
> 
> **Warnings: Some violence, non-graphic mentions of injury**
> 
> Disclaimer: I still don't own Merlin. It's a crying shame, I know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you weren't expecting another update so soon ^_^ Neither was I, actually - as it turns out, I was in a particularly writer-ish mood last night, and pumped out this chapter in about four hours. (I finished it at midnight, but don't worry - I proof-read it about ten times this morning, and kichia437 has gone over it, so there shouldn't be any mistakes :D) So, here you go! Enjoy!!

  
Merlin turned and fled from Gwaine’s searching gaze, tripping down the hall and around the corner as fast as his legs would carry him with his heart racing in his chest. Oh, bloody hell, they _knew_. How, he had no idea. No-one but the Druids had ever been able to sense his powers before, and he’d grown lax in the assumption that the trend would hold true. That the prince and princess were of magic was indisputable – he could sense it rolling off of them in waves even from this distance, a boiling epicentre of power that he could scarcely believe he hadn’t noticed sooner. The energy was strange and fey – his and hers mingled with one another freely, twining and _communicating_ in a manner that he had never seen before. The tendril that had latched onto his own psyche when Rhys had grabbed his arm had seemed different to any other mind-speech that Merlin had encountered; and likely it was, because Merlin had never even considered the possibility of transmitting images rather than words. But that was what Rhys had done.

He shuddered, replaying the scene that Rhys had shown him in his mind. Not good, so not good. And he had no idea how much Gwaine had heard, or what the knight might infer. ‘Our kind’. What could be taken from that? The knights were already asking far too many questions about his past, and Gaius was going to _kill_ him-

“ _Mer_ lin!”

Something knocked into him, and he would have fallen on his face if a strong hand hadn’t reflexively grabbed hold of his arm. It was too close to Rhys’ restraining grip, and Merlin fought to steady himself before his gangly limbs could twist themselves into a knot, snapping himself out of his daze and holding back a moan when he realised who he’d run into.

“Arthur! I thought you were still at the-”

“We finished up after the prince and princess left,” Arthur interrupted, eying him strangely. “Are you alright, Merlin? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin said again, hoping fervently that Arthur would prove to be in one of his more oblivious moods. “The prince and princess wanted to make their own way to their chambers.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, frowning. “That’s-”

“Arthur!”

Merlin reacted without thinking, shoving the king to the side so that the knife stuck itself in Arthur’s shoulder, rather than his friend’s spine. The king choked in shock, stumbling against the opposing wall, and the man who had been wielding the weapon didn’t hesitate; employing the hard won element of surprise, he pulled a second dagger from his belt and slashed wildly at Merlin’s face, snarling viciously. The servant jerked backwards, his feet nearly going out from under him with the unexpected movement. In the distance, a maidservant turned the corner, and he vaguely heard her scream.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted, battle-reflexes propelling him back up when anyone else would have frozen in shock or surprise. It didn’t do Merlin much good, though, in the ten seconds or so that it would take the king to do anything moderately helpful. The man slashed again, and Merlin felt a sort of macabre sense of déjà vu as the knife whistled uncomfortably close. He threw up one arm to shield himself and the blade sliced across the length of his forearm, drawing blood as the man lunged in for the kill.

Something grabbed Merlin around the shoulder and hurled him to the side before he could react, out of the path of the knife. His breathe left him in a rush as he connected with the wall of the narrow corridor, the shoulder on his good side impacting with the stone and sending a resounding jolt through his body as he crumpled to the floor with a moan. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he forced his head up, trying to make out his saviour. Relief washed over him as Gwaine deflected the assassin’s next strike with ease, batting the knife-hand to the side and coolly pushing the man off balance just in time for Arthur to reach them. He barely recognised the movement for what it was as the king lashed out, reversing the man’s grip on his knife and plucking it from his grasp before anyone could so much as blink. Merlin didn’t think that Arthur would have reacted with deadly force if he’d been able to avoid it – but next thing anyone knew the assassin was palming a third knife with a growl like that of a cornered animal, and three seconds later he was dead on the floor, his blood staining the marble and the king staring down at him wildly.

“Where the hell did he come from?” Arthur yelled, dropping the knife with a clatter.

“He just appeared out of nowhere,” Merlin wheezed out, using the wall as a support to pull himself back up onto his feet. “Arthur – the knife – you’re bleeding.”

The king seemed to notice the six inch blade sticking out of his left shoulder and leaking a trail of crimson down his arm for the first time. He swore loudly, reaching back to grasp the handle, and Merlin launched himself at his king, forcibly restraining him – as much as Merlin could forcibly restrain anyone – before he could do anything stupid.

“Don’t pull it out, you clotpole, you’ll bleed to death!”

“Touching as this is, we have an audience, gents,” Gwaine interrupted quietly. Merlin glanced back down the hall, and saw that the hysterical maidservant had been joined by two wide-eyed guardsmen, drawn by the screams. Once he was certain that Arthur wasn’t going to yank the blade out of his own flesh, Merlin backed off, throwing the knight a grateful look as he did so. That was twice that Gwaine had saved him from knife-wielding maniacs in as many days.

Arthur ran his un-damaged hand through his hair, obviously thinking fast, before pulling himself up straight and swearing again. “Gwaine. Get the guards to take care of the body. And let them know that no-one is to hear about this. If it got out, it could ruin the negotiations. Bribe them all if you have to.”

“Will you two be..?”

“I’ll be fine. Straight to Gaius,” the king said mirthlessly, grimacing and blanching a couple of shades whiter with the pain. “And it anyone else decides to try and kill me in my own castle, they’ll have just as much luck as he did. And tell Gwen what happened. She’ll have to stall the Powysi until we get this cleaned up.”

“Sire.” Gwaine hesitated, his eyes sliding uncertainly to Merlin. His expression told the servant all that he needed to know. The knight recognised the man lying sightlessly on the floor, too.

He’d been in the market square the day before – calmly watching as the first assassin attempted to gut Merlin.

Unaware of the understanding passing between the two men, Arthur nodded shortly to his knight and all but dragged Merlin off in the direction of Gaius’ chambers, features set in damage-control mode. Merlin didn’t protest as they hurried through the least used corridors, leading themselves on a path twice as long as it could have been had the king not been so wary of being seen in such a state. By the time they reached their destination, Arthur was white as a sheet and gasping for breath, leaning heavily on Merlin despite the fact that his servant was only marginally better off. The stitches in his side had torn partially, and blood was seeping through his jacket again to mingle with that leaking out of the long, ragged cut on his forearm. Add to that the stars dancing merrily in front of his vision, and the two of them looked so utterly horrendous that Gaius nearly had a heart attack when they stumbled through the door and into his chambers.

Arthur was immediately placed on the patient’s cot, and Merlin told quickly to sit down and breathe deeply as the physician fluttered around the king, demanding to know what had happened. Merlin heard his friend grunt more than once as the blade was drawn carefully out of his shoulder, and the wound cleaned, stitched, bandaged and hung from a sling with all of the efficiency that Gaius had at his disposal.

“Well, you’re not going to bleed to death, sire. You’re lucky,” Gaius said calmly once it was done, turning to his ward and tsking when he saw the stain above the older knife wound. “Had it been closer to your chest, it would have been much worse. You won’t be able to use that arm for a good while, though. And, _no_ ,” Gaius interrupted when the king went to protest, “you will _not_ be participating in the challenges this afternoon. Your knights can represent you fully with no loss of face.”

“This is a disaster,” Arthur muttered, and Gaius made a non-committal sound. “If Merlin hadn’t been there… What the hell am I going to say? How did he even get into the castle?”

Merlin hissed as his mentor prodded at his side, choosing to ignore Arthur’s assumptions about the security of the castle’s defences. “I would say that you’ll investigate quietly, and suggest to the prince and princess that an unfortunate accident occurred, sire,” Gaius advised. “Perhaps one of the horses spooked during the final preparations for the tourneys? Once you’re cleaned up, no-one will be able to tell the manner in which you were wounded. You could pass it off as a break.” The old man looked back up to purse his lips at his ward. “What did I say about life or death situations, Merlin?”

“You’re right, of course,” Arthur said distractedly, above Merlin’s sullen muttering. “If Gwaine and Leon moved fast enough, no-one need find out. You hear that, Merlin?”

“Are you going to bribe me into silence too, sire? Because I could use a raise.”

“Very funny. More like I’ll have you in the stocks if anything gets out.”

“I believe that you’re confusing bribery with blackmail.”

Gaius shushed them fondly. “No concussion. I don’t suppose there’s any way I could talk either of you out of attending the competitions?”

“No,” Arthur said succinctly. “We must pretend that all is as it should be.” Both Merlin and Gaius sighed, resigned.

“Then I suppose that all I can say is be careful.” The look that Gaius gave him told Merlin very clearly that they would be having a conversation once there was a moment of spare time, and, for once, Merlin wasn’t dreading it. He needed advice. And he needed it _desperately_. Rhys’ message floated back through his mind, and he gritted his teeth.

The prince had shown him… himself. Standing behind the king and queen, as he must have appeared from the Powysi’s perspective upon their arrival. The vision had clearly pointed out to him all of his own faults – in the eternity of mind-speech, Rhys had pulled his attention towards Merlin’s baggy, poorly made clothes, his thin frame held awkwardly as though in pain, the dark smudges under his eyes, the darker bruises peeking out from under his neckerchief; pointing out in no uncertain terms the contrasts between Merlin and the monarchs in whose shadows he hid.

Merlin hadn’t understood what the sorcerer and his sister, whose presence within the connection had been unmistakeable, had been trying to achieve. He’d said as much, angrily. He was a servant. What precisely were the prince and princess expecting?

Rhys’ answer echoed, as though the prince were standing next to him and whispering it in his ear.

_This is hardly fitting. Hardly fitting at all, for one of your standing… Emrys._

And that wasn’t even the worst part. Oh no. That would be the rather disturbing fact that the scene that had played out in his head had been the _exact same one_ that he’d dreamed about the night before.

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

It was a well-known fact within the walls of Camelot that their queen was a miracle worker.

And she must have been, because when Merlin and Arthur finally managed to painfully drag their sorry selves down to the tourney fields, Gwen sailing proudly along beside them, not a single whisper could be heard of any strange happenings in the past few hours. Merlin didn’t know if it had been the speed with which the castle occupants had reacted, or a healthy dose of the advised bribery amongst the staff – or perhaps simply the efficiency of Gwen’s servant network – but Heilyn and Rhys, along with the rest of the gathered crowd, seemed genuinely surprised when Arthur strode down into the pavilion with his arm in a sling, clad in crisp dress-wear rather than his chainmail and hauberk.

“King Arthur!” Heilyn exclaimed once they were safely ensconced within the shaded sitting area. “What on earth happened?”

“An unfortunate incident,” Arthur said smoothly. “One of the horses bolted. I was unlucky enough to get caught up in the middle of it.”

“And you won’t be able to compete? What a shame, the men were looking forward to it,” Rhys added politely. Merlin was suddenly struck by how feline both twins appeared, sleek and neat in their matching armour. The prince’s eyes bored into Merlin’s own for no more than a second, but the servant held his gaze steadily as another image flashed in-front of his vision. Rhys had noticed the clean white bandage peeking out from beneath his jacket’s sleeve, and the fresh bruise blossoming along his cheek from where he had made the wall’s passing acquaintance in the corridors. The brief contact was tinged with sardonic displeasure. Merlin made sure to send a jolt of irritation back; a sort of non-verbal ‘go to hell’.

“My men are more than capable of displaying Camelot’s talents,” Arthur was saying, ignorant to the small magics being performed in front of him. Merlin bit back a smirk at the king’s indifferent tone, utterly belying the temper tantrum that he’d been throwing in his chambers over not being able to compete only an hour previously. “I assume that you have no complaints?”

None were raised. Merlin helped Arthur and Gwen get settled in the pavilion, where they could view the proceedings unhindered – suppressing his jealousy when he remembered that he would be expected to stand for the proceedings in the interests of ‘pretending that nothing was wrong’. The Powysi servants mirrored his actions on the opposite side of the glorified tent for their own master and mistress, and Merlin realised for the first time that both the prince and princess were garbed for combat. They would be competing. His eyes narrowed as the siblings laughed and joked, wandering off to mingle with their knights while Camelot’s men made ready several metres away. The knights looked confident, Merlin saw with a tinge of pride. Gwaine caught his eye, and Merlin glanced away quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Arthur frown slightly at the movement.

Merlin winced as the herald began calling out the matches without further ado, loud and booming as ever. The Powysi had all been resting over the last few hours, recuperating until it was edging on early evening. Nevertheless, they would be weary from their travels, while Camelot’s knights should be fresh and prepared. He held his breathe in anxiety despite himself as the first pairing was announced and the named knights strode out onto the field amongst the cheers and catcalls of their fellows – Elyan against a Powysi that he had never heard of. Apparently whoever had put together the matches had been familiar with both parties, however, because the two men were well matched, both short and stocky, but with a certain grace about their movements.

It was as tight-run as he’d expected. The goal of the evening was, after all, to showcase the best that each kingdom had to offer. Merlin smirked gleefully when Elyan tipped the other knight with a well-timed counter-strike and put him in the dirt with a sword at his throat, ducking his head to hide it as the red-cloaked knights cheered, and those in Powysi green applauded politely. From his place behind Arthur’s temporary throne, he glanced over at where the prince and princess stood amongst their men, and tried not to laugh at the quickly hidden matching sour expressions on the twins’ faces.

After the first one, Merlin lost track of the repetitive matches, too busy balancing serving Arthur and Gwen and trying to rest while standing up. Gaius may have cleared him of a concussion, but he still had a throbbing headache that did strange things to his vision. Occasionally he heard a burst of applause, and looked up to find that Percival had floored the bruiser whom he had been paired against, or that one of the younger knights of Camelot was being carried off of the field sporting a broken wrist. It all flowed together in a tapestry of steel ringing against steel, raucous cheering, and spiking discomfort. Arthur, at least, seemed to enjoy it as the evening wore on and the shadows lengthened, apparently having gotten over his disappointment at not participating with his men.

Not every knight participated, of course – the Powysi had only just arrived, after all, and only the individual warm up matches had been scheduled for the evening. No, Merlin still had melees, jousting, archery competitions, and sundry other displays of men whacking each other with pointy objects to look forward to. That didn’t stop his immense relief when the last match was called, once the day’s last light had just begun to fade and the servants had lit braziers to light the field. He was swaying on the spot when the final names were announced.

“Sir Gwaine and the Crown Prince Rhys!”

Merlin looked up sharply, fatigue shoved abruptly to the back of his mind.

“That wasn’t on the lists,” Arthur remarked curiously, watching with interest as the two men rose from their respective sides of the field, striding forwards amongst the good-natured jeering and advice of their comrades.

“They met earlier this morning,” Merlin said quietly, and the king and queen gave him a questioning look. Merlin shrugged uneasily. “Rhys said something about the tournament. Maybe he requested the match.”

If either Arthur or Gwen found that unusual, they didn’t let on, but Merlin found his anxiety rising back up as his friend met the prince in the middle of the field, swords in hand. As if he could sense Merlin’s nerves, Rhys’ head tilted in his general direction, and Merlin could have sworn that the other man smirked.

“Ready,” the herald called, and Rhys struck out, fast and sure as a snake with his blunted blade.

Merlin bit back a cheer when Gwaine’s sword casually intercepted the other, flicking it back as though admonishing a flirt coming on just that bit too strong. Gwaine hadn’t so much as looked at him since the start of the matches, and as he watched, Merlin couldn’t help but wonder whether or not the knight had been drinking since the morning. He’d seemed sober enough in the corridor.

_Emrys…_

Merlin stiffened as the match suddenly blurred out of focus, the voice winding its way into his mind. It was feminine instead of masculine, and undoubtedly powerful, to intrude upon his thoughts with such ease.

 _Heilyn_ , Merlin replied, foregoing any honorifics. They knew who he was. If they expected deference, they were looking in the wrong place.

_Have you reached the conclusion that we are here for you, not for the so-called King?_

_So-called nothing_ , Merlin snarled, not even bothering to try and remain cordial. _What do you want?_

 _Tut tut, Emrys,_ Heilyn admonished. _Is that any way to address your kin, when we have come all this way, and risked so much, just to aid you?_

Aid him his baggy left… _I asked you what you wanted._

 _We want to help you_. Merlin’s eyes dragged themselves over to where the princess leant against the field’s perimeter, staring past her brother's match and pinning him beneath her gaze. _Something is coming, Emrys. It may already be here, judging by your… appearance._ No images appeared, but he got the message. The Powysi did not approve of the all-powerful Emrys looking like – well, like him.

He hesitated, wondering how much he should give away. _Are you going to tell me what sort of something, or are you just going to go with the cryptic commentary? Because I already have a dragon for that nonsense._

A tinkling laugh drifted across the connection. _Somehow I’m not surprised. Very well, straightforward I shall be. Rhys is a seer. A dream-walker. He has visions of disasters before they occur, which is how we were able to find you with such ease. What he saw was simple. The witch-finders are coming for you, Emrys._

 _Tell me something I don’t know,_ Merlin shot back, relaxing slightly. For a moment he’d thought she was going to tell him it was the apocalypse, or something equally ridiculous. _They haven’t managed to kill me yet._

 _Through no virtue of your own, I believe,_ Heilyn said drily. _They’re coming full force. This is but a taste. Rhys has seen what would happen to these lands if you were lost, Emrys. We cannot afford that._

 _So you’ve come to, what, protect me?_ Merlin asked disbelievingly, vaguely aware of the shouting of the men around him. _You organised an entire damn treaty so that you could play bodyguards for a couple of weeks?_

 _Do you know why our kingdom is so reclusive, Emrys? We did not bow to Uther’s Purge. We stood strong, in secret, as a last bastion for our kind. All of our rulers have been magi, since the dawn of our line. There’s a reason why Rhys and I rule together – one of us cannot use our magic alone, not without the other’s presence, and one cannot rule Powys without magic. Our kingdom needs magic to survive. We cannot allow this… situation with the Pendragons to continue. We_ need _you to bring about the time of Albion, and we will do anything to see the prophecy of Emrys and the Once and Future King come to pass._

 _That’s lovely. Really touching,_ Merlin informed her. _Just for you, I promise I’ll do my best._

 _You’re not doing good_ enough, _Emrys_ , Heilyn yelled, losing her temper, and he flinched, taken aback. _Arthur has pulled the sword from the stone. He wields Excalibur as king of these lands, and you stand by his side as his advisor. So why has nothing changed?_

 _I’m moving as fast as I can,_ Merlin said quietly. _It’s not exactly an easy process._

 _It’s impossible,_ Heilyn said flatly. _Arthur will never change his mind. He is not the Once and Future King. He has lost any support that he once had in Powys. You, on the other hand, we cannot afford to lose, which is why we will not stand by and let you risk your life for his any longer._

_I think you’ll find that you don’t have a damn say in the matter._

_That’s where your wrong, Emrys. I have permission from my father, our king. If you do not come willingly back to Powys, where we can keep you protected until the proper time… we will inform Arthur of your true nature. Then you will have no choice. And if you think that I am joking… well. Are you really willing to risk it? We’ll be expecting you to accompany is when we leave the summit in two weeks’ time._

The connection snapped abruptly, and Merlin found himself alone in his own mind, reeling.

He looked up just in time to see Rhys trip Gwaine, watching as though in slow motion as the knight fell back onto the ground with a thud, and the prince levelled his sword triumphantly at Gwaine’s chest. A final burst of applause erupted from the spectators for the last win of the day, but Merlin barely noticed, watching the Powysi sword threatening Camelot red in horror.

_Check._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, we're getting to the good stuff now. Was that what you were expecting? Next chapter; Merlin needs advice and yells at the knights, Gwaine is helpful, the writer finally reveals what that damn gold thing is, and the almighty Emrys gets his backside handed to him by a band of witch-finders. See you then!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin tries to find someone who can help him. Gwaine decides that enough is enough, and Arthur, oblivious as always, comes to the wrong conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long! I've been a tad unwell (read: unable to move for the last three days) hence why this update took so long. (It was again finished at midnight last night, sooooo... yeah *laughs sheepishly*) I have written, though, as promised! 
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings: Some violence and description of injury**
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

“Gaius!"

Merlin burst through the door to the physician’s chambers, skidding into the middle of the room and almost knocking one of the tables over in his haste. “Gaius!” he called again, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice as he glanced wildly around the empty space, as though checking that his mentor wasn’t inexplicable hiding in one of the oddly-shaped room’s many corners.

The corners remained stubbornly empty, and Merlin felt the most ridiculous urge to cry in frustration. He needed help. He needed Gaius to come up with some obvious and logical solution, because whatever that solution was, it was evading him with all of its cunning. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide, couldn’t wait for the storm to pass or go to one of his allies for aid – but neither could he fight back. Oh, the twins had been clever – any act of aggression towards them during their diplomatic mission, even if it was only the inability of Arthur and his army to protect his guests, could result in a war with Powys. They were nigh on untouchable unless he wanted to incur the wrath of their father, who was already harbouring a long-standing grudge against Camelot. But he couldn’t abandon Arthur – and allowing them to reveal his secrets would be abandoning the king as surely as if he went with them on his own terms.

Merlin’s magic coiled, and he battened it forcefully back down, running a hand agitatedly through his hair. Gaius. He needed to speak to Gaius. And if the physician wasn’t here… Merlin swore, smacking his own forehead. _Of course_. The tourney. Gaius would be all the way back down near the field’s small medical station, treating the wounded.

The warlock hesitated. He’d slipped away from the crowd of knights and royalty, unwilling to follow docilely along behind as Arthur and Gwen led the twins up to the castle. The four of them would be dining alone for the prince and princess’s first night in Camelot, before any real negotiations started, and naturally Merlin had been expected to serve. But… he just hadn’t been able to do it. He couldn’t stand there and pour their wine, listening to their sham of an alliance as they pointed out all the ways that his life-style offended their delicate sensibilities; and if he went back down someone would inevitably see him and redirect him towards where he was meant to be.

Any choice in the matter was lost as the door swung back open noisily. He dropped the hand worrying at his hair and whipped around, wild-eyed, relaxing slightly when he recognised the knights.

“Hey, whoa, Merlin,” Elyan grinned as he stepped through the doorway, raising both hands in a gesture of peace; but from the concern in his eyes he was only half joking. “Just us. You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin said shortly as the knights piled into the small space – suddenly uncomfortable aware that his hair was sticking up at odd angles and that his eyes were as wide as a possum’s, while his friends had somehow found time to freshen up and make themselves presentable after their fights. “Sorry, I was just, um, looking for Gaius.”

“He’s back down near the training field,” Percival said helpfully, confirming Merlin’s suspicions. “Ector got stabbed by accident, remember? He said that he didn’t want anyone to bother him until tomorrow morning. It was pretty bad.”

He _hadn’t_ remembered that, not having paid much attention to the majority of the fights. Merlin swallowed back a string of curses. He couldn’t _wait_ until the morning.

“The king sent us to find you,” Leon said carefully, perhaps seeing the slightly manic look in Merlin’s eyes. “You left without telling anyone where you were going. He needs you in the larger dining hall.”

Merlin sagged in defeat. He couldn’t see Gaius, and he could hardly talk his way out of serving at the banquet now. “Okay, I’m coming,” he said tiredly. Then he paused. “Wait, he sent _all_ of you to fetch me?”

“Nah, mate, just me,” Gwaine said cheerfully, and Merlin glanced over at his friend, trying not to show his wariness. Gwaine seemed none the worse for wear for his earlier encounter with Rhys, save for a minute stiffness to his movements. The thoughtful look in his eyes, however, was unnerving. Like the knight was trying to solve a puzzle – a puzzle named Merlin. The servant fought back a shudder. “To be honest I think don’t think he wanted me near the Powysi after that prancing twit won our match. And no-one really had anything to do for the rest of the evening, so they followed me. It’s my natural charisma.”

Percival elbowed his knight-brother in the ribs, rolling his eyes, but Merlin couldn’t find it in himself to smile. “Actually, now that you mention it, we’ve been trying to find something out – but no-one seems to know,” Elyan added casually, and a flash of foreboding jolted through Merlin’s stomach, layering with the bone-deep dread already seated there. “It’s kind of embarrassing, actually, but with everything that’s going on now’s as good a time as any… what was your surname again, Merlin? None of us could remember.”

“I-” Merlin stuttered after a moment’s silence, taken aback. “It’s… I don’t…”

“Come on, Merlin, it’s not exactly state secrets,” Percival wheedled. “They’ve already had a laugh at me over being a Wheeler.”

“I…” Gods damn it all, why couldn’t they see that he just needed to be left _alone_?

“Are you sure that you’re alright?” Leon queried again, the lot of them staring at him with frightening intent, and Merlin finally lost it.

“No, I’m not alright!” he yelled, and a small jolt of vindictive pleasure shot through him as the knights flinched in surprise. “I’ve got a million different things to do, I need to speak to Gaius, I haven’t eaten since this morning, everything hurts, not to mention that some nut-job’s trying to kill me-” _and some other nut-jobs are black-mailing me into forsaking everything that I love_ – “and I just – I really don’t need your questions right now!”

“Merlin-” Gwaine started, but the warlock was having none of it.

“Don’t _Merlin_ me, Gwaine! It’s none of your bloody business, _so leave me the hell alone_!”

And with that he shoved straight through the middle of them, jostling Leon out of his way. The knight didn’t even attempt to hold his ground, staring in shock as Merlin hurried out through the door, slamming it behind himself without really thinking and barely noticing when he brushed past someone else on at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t Gaius, so he didn’t care.

He darted down the staircase, letting his feet carry him where they would as his mind raced. All he knew was that there was no way in hell that he was going to the dining hall. Merlin groaned, stopping for a moment just to lean against the wall and breathe.

What did he do now?

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

Gwaine’s first instinct was to run straight out after his friend, but moment his fingers latched onto the door handle, the languidly rotting wood was pushed in from the other side for the third time in five minutes. He hopped back out of the way in a rather undignified fashion to avoid being run over as Arthur stormed into Gaius’ chambers, one arm still hooked up across his chest in its sling.

“What did you do?” the king demanded without preamble, glaring around at their shell-shocked faces. “I asked you to find him, not to give him a heart-attack! The prince and princess are waiting, and Elyan’s supposed to be dining with us!”

“I don’t know what happened, sire,” Leon said, bewildered. “He seemed jumpy and out of sorts-”

“But all we did was ask what his last name was,” Elyan finished, and Gwaine watched in surprise as, instead of getting angrier, Arthur blew out an irritated sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing at them as though he had the beginnings of a head-ache.

“I thought that I told you to leave that,” he said wearily, the note of reprimand clear. “I guess it’s not surprising that you didn’t know. Merlin’s father isn’t an easy subject for him.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he? But what-”

“Merlin never knew his father. He doesn’t _have_ a last name, Gwaine,” the king snapped, giving him an odd look, and the knight’s mouth clacked shut. Oh. _Oh_.

The same dawning comprehension and chagrin blossomed on the faces of his fellows, and he watched as the identical regret at their pushiness welled up. From the look on Arthur’s face, the king was under the impression that their line of questioning was to blame for Merlin’s outburst as well. But beneath the revelation – which, in hindsight, should probably have been fairly obvious to start with – Gwaine found that he wasn’t so convinced. Maybe it had contributed – but Merlin had looked positively frazzled from the moment they had walked through the door. No, he’d looked uncomfortable since the incident with the prince and princess in the hallway, Gwaine realised.

This was getting out of hand. There were too many different factors at play here, too many things that he was just brushing along the edge of knowing – and Gwaine had a feeling that even with his recent epiphanies and conclusions, he was still missing half of the game board. He came to a snap decision. It was time to stop agonising and do something.

“I’ll go check on him,” he said calmly, pausing at the look on Arthur’s face. “I can be tactful,” he said, injured. “I’ll have you know that I can be downright soothing.”

“Fine,” Arthur allowed, looking faintly sceptical. “Tell him that I’ll find someone else to take over his duties for the night. But make sure he calms down – I need him back at work in the morning. Is that understood?” Gwaine saluted mockingly, and Arthur frowned. “And make sure that he _is_ okay, Gwaine,” the king added hesitantly. “I haven’t seen him that upset… well. Not in a long time.” Gwaine’s eyebrows shot upwards, and this time when he acknowledged his king he allowed a measure of genuine respect to creep into the gesture – because Arthur had sounded almost like he was talking about a family member.

Clapping Elyan on the shoulder – because the knight knew that he sure wouldn’t want to be the one dining with the creepy twins – he strode out into the stairwell, jogging purposefully downwards. Gwaine paused at the base of the stairs, trying to figure out which way his distraught friend would have gone. The answer came with relative ease – in this state of mind, Merlin would want to be as far away from everyone else as possible, somewhere quiet and out of the way. But, being Merlin, he wouldn’t want to have idle hands. Acting on his hunch, Gwaine padded through the corridors, heading steadily down towards castle’s lower levels, nodding politely whenever he passed someone – a servant rushing to keep up with the work supplied by the influx of visitors, an inhabitant of the castle on their nightly routine, a member of the Powysi household, lurking suspiciously. Although that last one might have been his imagination. It was possible to lurk in a non-suspicious manner, he supposed.

He reached the armoury in good time, considering how far down through the castle it was. The knight eyed the flickering torchlight seeping out through the entryway for a moment before peering through the stone doorway, fully expecting to find his friend; perhaps sitting cross-legged on the stone floor between the racks of deadly weaponry, hunched over some miscellaneous piece of armour and scrubbing at it with his rag in the twisting half-light of the scattered candles as though it had done him some grievous personal wrong. But the room was empty. Gwaine bit back a scowl, stumped, and double checked that he hadn’t missed Merlin hiding somewhere in the shadows. Where else would Merlin go? The library? The… tavern? No, wherever Arthur had gotten that idea, Gwaine was ninety percent sure that it was complete rubbish. No two ships passed in the night with _that_ level of frequency.

Gwaine’s brow creased as he tried to come up with some other possible hiding place, and he turned back into the corridor, gesturing absently to the two guardsmen striding past on their nightly rounds. The pair nodded respectfully back, flickering torches casting strange shadows. They hadn’t moved more than a half-dozen paces in the opposite direction, however, when he groaned at his own stupidity and hurtled after them.

“Wait! Yes, you two! Either of you seen Merlin around here anywhere?”

The two guards, having frozen in place, glanced uncertainly between themselves. Gwaine huffed in annoyance. “You know, tall, skinny, red neckerchief, penchant for running into things? Merlin? King’s manservant?”

Their confused expressions cleared somewhat, and the pair nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, I saw him just a few moments ago, sir knight,” the one on the left – Gwaine honestly had no clue what their names might have been – said helpfully, much to the knight’s delighted surprise. “He was heading down towards the lower levels. Around thataway.” He gestured vaguely off to the left, towards one of the least used parts of the castle.

“Bit odd, that,” his fellow added thoughtfully, leaning his torch comfortably against his own shoulder. “I thought so, anyway. Now that you mention it. Nothing but cellars down there. And the siege tunnels-”

“What would you know about siege tunnels?” the first guard demanded, eying his friend belligerently. “Don’t listen to him, sir knight, he don’t know what he’s talking about. That’s well above us, right, John?”

John opened his mouth, and Gwaine cut him off, trying not to dwell on their apparent lack of concern regarding people skulking around the siege tunnels – which, in fact, actually were down in the area that the guard had pointed out. “Thanks, lads,” he said quickly, before they could start arguing. “That was… very helpful. You can go back to – ah – patrolling.”

“Oh. Alright. Sir knight,” John saluted, looking almost disappointed, and the leftmost guard mirrored the gesture just a touch too slowly. “We’ll be… around. If you need us.”

Gwaine watched in bemusement as the pair strode purposefully off, straight-backed and torches held high as though expecting a performance review. His lips twitched, and he shook his head slowly before turning and heading in the direction that the guards had pointed out. No wonder that assassin had managed to get into the citadel, if their guards thought it ‘a bit odd’ when people lurked near the tunnels. Arthur would just love hearing about that.

Which rose the question of where, precisely, Merlin was heading. Assuming that it was actually Merlin that the questionably reliable John and friend had seen. Gwaine was fairly certain that his friend knew about the location of just about every way in and out of the castle – including a goodly number that didn’t show up on any of the maps, and almost certainly the siege tunnels – but what, on the gods’ green earth, could had possessed him to want to leave the castle so… secretively?

It was an uncomfortable thought. There truly wasn’t anywhere else for Merlin to go in that part of the castle, save perhaps the wine cellars – again he discarded that particular possibility as improbable – and somehow Gwaine doubted that his friend had decided on a late herb-collecting trip to clear his thoughts. But neither did he think that Merlin had spooked, as his behaviour might have suggested. Regardless what people thought, Merlin wasn’t the sort to run from his problems, whatever those might be; and he definitely wasn’t the sort to leave his friends. Which didn’t leave many other explanations.

The knight’s feet carried him down stairs and through passages, into areas where dust caked the marble floor and created a canvas on which a long, determined line of footprints, more or less matching Merlin’s size, gradually became visible. The faint prints, near invisible in the gloom, were spaced far enough apart to suggest that his quarry had been moving with some speed – and, with a definite path to follow, Gwaine increased his own pace to match. He came to a halt only when the trail ran into a dead end and vanished.

This was it. The entrance to – one of – the secret passages. After a moment’s hesitation – he’d forgotten where it was – Gwaine found the mechanism hidden behind a mouldering tapestry and fiddled with it like Arthur had shown them, stepping back as some ancient form of pulley system groaned to life and dragged the seemingly solid stone into the adjoining wall, inch by torturous inch. Coughing as the displaced dust floated gently down to coat his hair and the back of his throat, Gwaine paused one last time, suddenly realising precisely what he’d so glibly set about doing. He doubted that Merlin would appreciate his intrusion into the servant’s privacy; or that Arthur would be particularly pleased by his disappearance, coupled with Merlin’s. He’d probably have every tavern in the city scoured if they weren’t back by morning, Gwaine thought wryly – then wondered why their not being back seemed in any way possible in the first place.

Did he have the right to follow Merlin when his friend so obviously wanted to be alone? Probably not. But something told him to do it anyway. What if Merlin got into trouble, after all? Two people had already tried to kill him in the past two days. Gwaine was under no delusions that the second man had been after Arthur. It was too great a coincidence that he had been in the square.

Mind made up, and extremely glad that he hadn’t yet discarded his sword for the evening, Gwaine strode down into the tunnels and flicked the opposing mechanism, closing the way behind himself.

A hundred meters down the passage, he’d forgotten where the device was again, and found himself ruefully praying that he did, indeed, find Merlin – if only so that the servant could let them back into the castle.

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

The sun had kissed the horizon by the time Merlin made it out of the tunnels and into the open air. He glanced around uneasily, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, even though he knew that it was impossible. He’d swept his surroundings with his magic more than once already, searching for unfriendly eyes, and found none. Regardless, he swept again, and didn’t start out towards the forest until the pulse had come back negative to human presence.

The siege tunnel that he had taken emerged far from the castle walls, through a small overhanging cliff at the edge of the woods. He slipped gratefully into their shadows, welcoming the sounds of the night-life flitting and rustling about as it prepared for the coming darkness. Hopefully no-one in the castle would be too alarmed by his disappearance – it wasn’t like he hadn’t vanished before, and Arthur had rarely reacted save to throw something at his head. And if he couldn’t talk to Gaius, that left just one other source of magical wisdom at his disposal.

Who knew, maybe Kilgarrah would even be able to convince the witch-twins to pack up and leave them alone. After all, he’d been the one to insist that Arthur was the Once and Future King in the first place.

He started jogging in the direction of Kilgarrah’s favourite clearing; the only one close enough for Merlin to reach at short notice, yet far enough away that no-one would notice a dragon the size of a small mansion dropping by. By now it was a familiar path, and Merlin barely paid attention to his own footfalls, letting his mind race ahead as his feet picked out the route least likely to send him falling into a ditch with unnatural accuracy. Having a distinct plan of action had calmed him – Merlin found that he no longer felt quite so frantic, so powerless.

He ran that way for nearly twenty minutes, long enough that the light had turned buttery and uncertain against the canopy overhead, and the shadows had stretched to hide the forest floor, before he slowed to a walk for a few moments, resting his various injuries as they squabbled to make their complaints at the exercise the loudest. Merlin hesitated before setting off again. The clearing was only about half a kilometre away from here. He’d make it before the sun was gone.

Merlin rubbed wearily at his eyes. Gods, he was exhausted, physically and mentally. Weary and aching. He should have been resting, recovering from the not one but two assassination attempts. Wasn’t he entitled to a few days rest after a near death experience? After Kilgarrah cleared this up – and he _had_ to believe that the dragon would have some way of fixing this – he was going to ask for time off. He was going to have a holiday. That sounded blissful. Everyone could just leave him alone for a week or maybe two, and he’d –

Something twinged suddenly on the edges of his senses again, and he frowned as his magic bubbled nervously in response, pulling him out of his reverie. The sensation was familiar, somehow. His magic had reacted to something like this before, he thought uneasily, suddenly aware of the darkness closing its wings around him. Erring on the side of caution, Merlin obeyed his instincts and sent off another subtle pulse, searching the dark forest around him.

The pulse came back a second too late. After all, the crossbow bolt that punched through his shoulder was warning enough.

The sheer force of it sent him spinning like a top, and he had to fight not to fall. _Now_ his tendrils of magic returned, wailing their sudden cautions as they refracted off of over a dozen bright points of light into his mind, each representing a person hidden in the darkness of the woods. Stunned, his hand fluttered towards the wound. When his fingers came back, even in the weakening light and beyond the white film that had taken up residence across his vision in his shock, they were crimson.

His ears, abruptly hyper-sensitised, picked up the twang of a second following its brother, and his eyes flashed in the darkness, burning the incoming bolt to ash and molten steel in an instant. But the reaction was sluggish and slow, and Merlin was suddenly aware of the nauseating sensation of his magic congealing ever so slowly inside of his veins. He glanced down at the bolt protruding beneath his shoulder-blade as pain, white-hot and deadly cold, flared up around the wound – numbing the area and feeling as though it were tearing the flesh surrounding it to pieces at the same time. His magic, urgent through its sudden lethargy, screamed a warning, and he glanced up in time to see the dark shapes burst out of the darkness.

They had surrounded him, he realised distantly, wondering how on earth he had been taken by surprise so very, very easily. He’d been distracted, but… oh, he realised, as he brought up one of his hands and sent two of the shapes slamming back – _get them away, get them away from me_ – away into a tree. The sensation. He _had_ felt it before. He’d felt it around the soul-stone. These were the witch-finders. Of course.

Someone came up behind him, and he turned, ducking the sharp-metal-rune-bad-void thing that whistled past his face. He thrust his good arm outwards, catching his assailant palm-out in the solar-plexus with a crunch, letting his magic flow out through the connection. The man choked, his eyes rolling up into his head, and Merlin swiped clumsily outwards as he collapsed. Fire danced through the air at his will, shielding him, and he vaguely heard the shouts of men and women through the muffling water that seemed to have descended around his hearing. The bolt. The bolt, that was what was doing this, he thought numbly. The bolt was one of the void-bad-things, a chasm of emptiness in the magic that soaked through the landscape. He reached up and grabbed hold of it, ignoring the physician’s voice that screamed at him to stop. He needed to get it out. So he pulled.

The tip had already been poking out through his flesh, but the shaft squelched agonisingly through the tissue of his shoulder. Merlin screamed, his vision blinking out for a moment, but the second it was free everything slammed back into place, his magic shaking itself free and roaring back through his limbs. His face snapped up from where he had fallen to his knees, a snarl on his lips – just in time to meet the fist that slammed into his face. Ah. His shield had fallen.

Merlin saw stars. He was vaguely conscious of falling. But the last thing that he was aware of was a familiar voice calling his name. No, screaming, roaring, bellowing.

 _Gwaine_? he thought, confused. Then he let the blackness take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Peeks out from behind hastily constructed makeshift barricade*
> 
> Before you pull out the pitchforks and burning torches - I know! I promised that you'd find out what the gold thing was! But it was twelve o'clock and my brain was refusing to work past droning an endless litany of _it will work better if you put it in the next chapter_ , and the choice came down to trying to squish it into this one at a later date, or posting today. You have my one hundred percent guarantee that it _will_ be revealed next chapter as will the majority of the rest of the plot. I have a half page description of precisely _how_ it will be revealed written up on my laptop. 
> 
> Anyway,.. I'm too tired to tell if that was any good or not, so you'll just have to let me know! (Seriously. Let me know if there's anything that wasn't done very well so that I can go back once my brain decides to start working again and fix it) Either way, I hope you enjoyed that! See you soon!
> 
> P.S. Just thought I'd explain - Elyan in particular would have been dining with the king and queen 'cause he's Gwen's brother, and as such rather important. Just clarifying ^_^
> 
> edit: oh, I almost forgot! I promised that I'd put this up - so, everyone's reaction (read: hatred) towards the twins was far more pronounced than I had expected. So, I'm wondering if I should alter their... fate. How about we put it to a vote? All in favour of Merlin offing the twins at the end of the fic, cast your vote in the comments section. All in favour of him chasing them out in a BAMFish rage and telling them never to return (which, admittedly, will be easier to write in character) do likewise, and I'll write an alternate ending depending on which one is more popular! Can't wait to see the verdict!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised... WE FIND OUT WHAT THE GOLD THING IS!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting on this - I had a bit of a writing rampage over the weekend, so I'll be updating again tomorrow ^_^ This chapter's also a bit longer than the previous ones.
> 
> I am really excited about the next couple of chapters. Things are really started to speed up :D As promised, in this one we find out what the gold thing is, and... I start to go into Gwaine's backstory. Eheehe. Ehehehehe. Hehe... (I'm kind of nervous about this. Hopefully everyone likes it) Let me know what you think!!
> 
> **Warning: violence, depiction of violence and some course language**

Closeted in the darkness of the woods, Merrain watched silently as the warlock – Emrys – wavered on the spot, dappled by the dying light of the sun. _So close_ , after all this time.

It had taken them weeks to find him, even with the druid’s information. They’d known he lived in the castle, known that he was a part of Camelot’s inner court, but they’d hardly jumped to the conclusion that they should be searching amongst the serving staff. Without the souldstones, they might never have discovered who they were truly searching for. And in all the time since they had found him, he had never been alone, always surrounded by the king and his knights. When the soulstones had shown him leaving the castle at this hour, she nearly hadn’t believed their luck.

He was smaller than she had expected, even after sifting through the mountains of reports. Small, and consummately unimportant looking. Oh, she knew that physical appearance counted for little among those with magic; yet somehow she still found it insulting when huge, hulking, well-trained killers like Stephen and Gallow simply vanished – and the perpetrator turned out to look like he’d just run away from home.

The man was younger than she was, slim, elfin and harried looking; blessed with a deceptively sweet, guileless exterior that, from experience, hinted at a preference for subtlety over brute strength in his magics. Her men hadn’t been completely unsuccessful, she noted grudgingly, silently slipping one foot beneath the leaf litter as she edged around the bole of a tree and settled into a clearer vantage point. Bandages peeked out from beneath ill-fitting clothing, pale against the rising moonlight; and even from this distance, bruise-like shadows and erratic movements hinted at a bone-deep weariness. That they had managed to weaken him was undoubtedly the only reason she had gotten so close so easily. So maybe she wouldn’t curse their souls to the deepest pits of hell, after all.

The warlock stiffened suddenly, and Merrain’s breath caught in her throat. Had he sensed her? Her heart started pounding, frighteningly loud in the stillness of the woods. Carefully, carefully, she levelled her crossbow, revelling in its comforting weight. It was difficult to feel truly afraid of the supernatural, she mused, sighting swiftly down her line, with the familiar, wickedly runed arrow-head between her and them. A reminder that, even without magic, she was in no way helpless. Smiling at the thought, she exhaled – because this was it, this was what all the months of waiting had culminated in – and calmly squeezed the trigger.

A thrill of exultation flooded through her as the silver bolt arced eagerly forth, thudding home with a meaty smack and sending her quarry stumbling forwards. Right in the shoulder; close enough to his heart for the runes to sap his strength immediately, but unlikely to do much permanent damage she noted clinically, pleased. Behind her, she heard her father grunt in approval. Most warlocks would have crumpled under the sheer force of the runes etched on that bolt, and Merrain’s brow furrowed as Emrys gasped in shock but regained his balance, staring down at the damage more in surprise than panic. Eyes narrowing, she pulled the crossbow back up before he could recover, sighting and aiming in quick succession, and snapped off a second shot. Excessive – but she wasn’t taking any chances.

He was _hers_.

The second bolt flew forth just as readily as the one buried in Emrys’ flesh, a fleet silver streak. It didn’t make it half way across the clearing. Merrain’s mouth went dry as the runed arrow spontaneously burnt up in mid-air, without warning, without cause, suddenly leaving only ashes drifting in the breeze. Her eyes flicked back to Emrys, and she found his head tilted unnervingly in her direction as he pressed one hand against his shoulder to stem the blood flow, rather than questing after the source of his hidden attackers as it should have been. Her heart seized up in her chest. That was impossible.

“Go,” she hissed urgently, fingers fluttering in rapid hand-signs. A dozen of her finest soldiers slid out of the darkness at her command, silent and deadly as hunting hounds, and she watched intently as they rushed forwards as one, forcing herself to stay back. Her people had him surrounded. He had a bolt imbedded deep in his flesh. This was what they were trained for.

A small gasp escaped her lips as the warlock caught sight of them and struck out with one hand, eyes lighting up with a dull golden light and sending three of her people crashing backwards the moment they cleared the tree-line. A hurried string of violent curses filtered out under her breath, and adrenalin surged. Oh, _hell_. The hunters faltered in shock, then rallied, pushing forwards as their quarry realised that he was cornered. This was the most dangerous part of any hunt, Merrain knew, and she swore again as Evan, the impatient fool, hacked out from behind the warlock, only to collapse like a sack of potatoes the moment Emrys came into contact with him. _Impossible_. Those runes were inescapable.

And yet even as the thought crossed her mind, fire blossomed in the night, a raging, curling, twining sphere that cocooned protectively around Emrys and forced the hunters back, and she found herself having to squint to glimpse anything past it. Merrain’s eyes widened as the warlock reached up grimly through the tongues of flame, grasping hold of her bolt without qualm – and even she winced as his scream rent the air.

The gentle wind suddenly roared to life, howling in sympathy, and Merrain nearly lost her footing on the treacherous forest floor as the shield flickered and died and Emrys fell to the ground, his hoarse pants echoing through the trees. Fingers shaking in genuine fright – because this was not natural – she swiftly recovered herself and swung her bow back upwards. There was no way, she realised belatedly, that they could fight Emrys without something inhibiting at least some of his powers. But the remaining hunters swarmed forwards obliviously, unwittingly blocking her shot in their haste to take advantage of Emrys’ momentary weakness. Growling in frustration, she tossed the bow to the ground and drew her knives instead, preparing to end this.

“Merlin!”

Only her razor-sharp reflexes allowed her to throw herself back behind cover without being seen. Merrain pulled back into a crouch, watching warily as this new player thundered out from behind the trees. An ambush of the ambushers? But no. Only one man materialised, charging a full eight of her hunters alone. Whoever this man was – and, from the intelligence that Gallow had managed to gather, and the fury in his voice, she would assume that he was one of the knights held under Emrys’ sway – he would not alter the outcome of their hunt. The knight snarled in rage as Lilia smashed the dazed warlock in the face, drawing his sword, and Merrain took a moment to mourn his fate. His courage was admirable. Oh, the irony, of a knight of Camelot dying to protect the warlock at the heart of his court. And yet, no word of their interference could be allowed back to the king.

Three hunters peeled away from the warlock as their fellows set about ensuring that Emrys did not recover enough to pose a threat. It was brutal, but, again, necessary. Merrain turned her attention to the knight as he growled, eying her people down. As she had expected, Cei attacked first, his features set in a professional calm. Cei was their trainer, their veteran, the one that even she grudgingly admired. The knight would not last a minute.

The hunter feinted, his two fellows moving around in a flanking manoeuvre with feline grace, but to her surprise the knight didn’t take the bait – instead swaying with the stroke, and exploiting the resultant minute imbalance in Cei’s guard to let his sword dart beneath the hunter’s own, almost as though he had known exactly what to expect. Merrain stared in disbelief as the knight twisted his sword upwards and around, with an astonishing, ice-cold precision completely at odds with his rage, and flicked it almost contemptuously from Cei’s grasp. The hunter stumbled forwards, off-balance, and his mouth parted in surprise as the knight’s sword slid easily in between his ribs.

Merrain’s grasp tightened around the hilts of her knives, to the point where it felt like she was going to break something. Cei’s body slid unceremoniously to the ground with a dull _thump_ , but the knight barely paused, frightening in the intensity of his movements. Her two hunters never stood a chance, staring open mouthed at Cei. Two slashes of a sword, and they joined their comrade, one moaning, one ominously still, but Merrain barely spared them a glance, her insides slowly turning to ice.

That form. That one, particular manoeuvre, was one that she would recognise always. How many times had she been disarmed in that exact manner? The sun was gone, the moon was low, any light was almost non-existent – but she stared closer, taking in the planes of the face, the deep pockets of shadow between them, comparing them to a long forgotten memory.

It had been years. Decades. But she recognised him immediately. And, oh, how she wished that she didn’t. Thoughts of irony sprang back up, and she almost laughed at the sheer ridiculousness, briefly considering the crossbow lying in the dirt at her feet before reluctantly dismissing it. Not with her father still lurking somewhere nearby, watching.

The knight turned his back on the bodies, turning to advance on the five remaining hunters. Two of them let go of Emrys, drawing weapons determinedly to face him. She could almost sense their disbelief at his annihilation of their fellows. But then, they didn’t know what she did. Calmly, without stopping to truly consider it, Merrain stepped out from behind the trees, into the open.

“Stop.”

She was pleased to find that her voice rang out strongly, stilling the movements of her hunters so that the only sound in their blood-stained patch of forest was Emrys’ harsh breathing. The knight hesitated, reluctant to turn his back on the hunters in front of him to see who had snuck up behind. But he did pause. Did he, perhaps, recognise her voice?

Maybe he did. Because he turned slowly, warily, tensed to move in any direction with lightning speed at need. Gods, he had grown up. More than that. He was a man now, with strong, broad features, handsome even hidden in shadow. Well, she supposed that she hardly looked the same anymore, either. She took another step, into a patch of moonlight, and she relished in his shock as the moonlight hit her face.

Merrain smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Hello, Gwaine,” she said softly. “How have you been, brother?”

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

 _Gwaine_.

Merlin was fairly certain that he could hear his friend’s voice raised in anger, somewhere through the fog. It struck him as odd, for some reason, although he wasn’t entirely sure why. He’d been going to find Kilgarrah… because of the twins, the twins… and something – something sudden – oh, wait. That was it. The witch-finders had found him. He chuckled in his head. How ironic. The witch-finders had found a witch. Warlock, whatever.

Still, he was fairly certain that Gwaine shouldn’t have been there. What would it look like? How exactly could he explain this away? He vaguely wondered if he shouldn’t have been more worried about the fact that he was semi-unconscious and in the grips of the enemy. Literally. He could feel hands like bands of steel, locked around his upper arms and holding him suspended more or less upright, though his legs were tucked up underneath him. The pressure pulled at a thousand different points of pain, and it took all of his willpower not to shift in discomfort. Every basic instinct told him not to let them know he was waking up, so instead he focused his energy on doing just that.

It was hard. His magic felt like someone had taken a flail to it, and the horrible, raw sensation at the very centre of his being kept trying to pull him back under, back where he couldn’t quite feel the abuse. He fought against it, though, for all that it made him want to throw up. Everything hurt. He remembered the bolt, and Gwaine appearing, and then… pain. Fists and boots and blades banding together to harry him into the darkness. He sniffed disdainfully. Amateurs. This was nothing compared to Serket venom, or the chill of the Doroccha. This he could handle. He crawled a bit further towards awareness, feeling out the extremities of his body and taking back control of his aching muscles. Then he turned his senses outwards.

Light bit through his eyelids. It didn’t feel like much time had passed, so he assumed that someone had lit torches. That made sense. No point in having a screaming match when you couldn’t see the other person. And someone was most definitely having a screaming match. How inconsiderate, when he already felt like someone had taken a jack-hammer to his brain.

“He’s a warlock, you fool!” someone – a woman – shouted, and Merlin’s insides froze. “You’ve been protecting one of _them_!”

“You act like I should give a damn!” Gwaine’s voice roared back, and it took Merlin’s muddled brain a few moments to reconcile the words with the fury in every syllable. Gwaine knew. Gwaine knew he had magic. And he was angry… at the witch finders? Frustrated, Merlin forced his eyes to open a sliver, needing to see what was happening around him. It was too confusing otherwise.

Bright flame tore into his retinas, and he snapped them shut again. The next time he eased them open more gently, just a millimetre, so that his lashes shielded him from the light and from the glances of the people surrounding him. The shapes were blurry at first, the bright flares of the torches making it hard to focus or differentiate people from the slender boles surrounding them.

The first thing that he saw was chainmail and leather over broad shoulders, blocking a fair chunk of his vision. One of the witch finders was standing stock-still in front of him, slightly to the side, as though… guarding him? Two more held him in place, but… hadn’t there been more of them?

“You’re a disgrace,” the woman hissed. “He’s not your friend. He’s barely human. You _know_ that-”

“You wanna dance, Merrain, all you’ve gotta do is ask-”

“Neither of you shall do any such thing,” a third voice commanded, laced with the sort of authority that made Merlin shiver. That was the voice of someone used to being obeyed without question. It sounded far too much like Uther, although perhaps slightly silkier – the voice of someone who had ordered death, and would do so again without qualm.

Merlin strained to see past the man in front of him without moving his head, trying to find his friend. It wasn’t hard – Gwaine was standing directly across from them, and… oh. He’d found two more of the witch finders. They were holding Gwaine in place, arms locked around the knight’s in a similar manner to Merlin’s own captors. Although it looked like Gwaine had put up a better fight, considering how tightly they were hanging onto him. There was a blossoming bruise across his friend’s jaw, and his sword had been taken from him, but other than that he looked unharmed. Merlin relaxed slightly, wondering who Gwaine was glaring at with such murderous intensity. His eyes wandered in the direction of the glare, and he frowned.

There was the woman, standing in a pool of moonlight, flame flickering in her eyes. Her arms were crossed tightly, weapons sheathed on every available stretch of her heavily muscled body in the same manner as the other hunters; and while Merlin was certain that he didn’t know her, there was something familiar about her face – not in its actual features, but in the set of her jaw, the look in her eyes, the way she held her body. Behind her an older man lounged in the shadow. Merlin used the term older relatively – he was in no way frail, but rather bullishly fit and upright as a king.

He’d never seen them before. But for some reason, they frightened him, stirring some primal prey instinct. These weren’t just witch finders. These people were deadly.

“I’m disappointed, Gwaine,” the older man said calmly, and Merlin nearly lost his grasp on his composure. They knew Gwaine. Or were they simply referring to the fact that he was a knight of Camelot, sworn to kill people like Merlin? No, their tones were far too familiar with one another. “I thought you were more intelligent than this. Or have you simply allowed him to beguile you to the point where you can no longer tell reality from fiction?”

“I know what he can do,” Gwaine snarled. “I’ve known for days. I just don’t care. He’s my friend, and a better man you will ever be.”

Merlin’s heart stuttered in his chest. He had no time to fully process the words, however – the woman snorted with laughter, and he strained to keep up with the conversation above the growing complaints of his body, magic and frighteningly unfocused mind.

“You truly are a fool,” she said slyly. “You should have stayed out of the way, Gwin. Do you think he’ll thank you for your loyalty? That he won’t turn on you the moment he realises you know his secret? What a shame it would be, were he to discover that you were one of us.” Gwaine hurled some profanity at her, but the hunter simply smiled. “Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if he found out that you’d been carrying _this_?”

Merlin stared in confusion at the golden light that appeared in her hand. The hunter – Merrain – twirled it around her fingers so that it refracted the light of the torches in confusing patterns, making it difficult to determine what it actually was. Merlin stared harder, seeing Gwaine’s jaw tighten out of the corner of his eyes, and wondering what all the fuss was over what looked like a – bracelet?

“Let’s wake him up and find out, shall we?” Merrain crowed, glancing at the man behind her as though asking for permission, and when he offered no complaint she strode gleefully towards him.

The guard standing on front of him moved respectfully out of the way, Merlin had to fight his body’s reflexes to avoid flinching. He let his eyelids relax back shut – but in those last couple of moments of sight, he saw Gwaine heave violently forwards, trying to throw the hunters off and failing. “Leave him the bloody hell alone,” Gwaine shouted, but Merrain happily ignored him, and with his eyes closed Merlin had no time to prepare before she backhanded him brutally across the face.

Merlin’s head snapped to the side, his neck cracking dangerously with the sheer force behind tooth-rattling the blow. He gasped, unable to stop his eyes from snapping back open and reflex tears from welling up in front of his vision as he coughed fitfully. The hunter grunted in approval, kneeling down in front of him so that they were on the same level, and smirked when his traitorous eyes flicked over towards Gwaine. The knight’s gaze widened at him, as though Gwaine were trying to communicate some desperate need for forgiveness. Merlin frowned. Surely _Gwaine_ was the one who should be forgiving _him_.

“Hello,” Merrain said demurely, pulling his attention back. “You don’t look very surprised. I think he might have been listening to us, Father.” The older man didn’t answer, looking distinctly bored, and she cocked her head to the side as though studying him. “I can see why Gwaine is so fond of you. The big doe eyes are especially convincing… when they aren’t glowing, that is.” Merlin stayed silent, settling for glaring defiantly. He could hardly deny it after throwing that many people into trees.

“Merrain-” Gwaine started threateningly, but one of the men holding him punched him in the gut, and the knight doubled over with a grunt. Merlin started, but subsided when she pulled one of knives out in front of him, carefully angling it so that he could see the runes carved into the hilt.

“That’s right,” she said softly. “Don’t try anything, little warlock. It’s over. We know who you are, and what you’re doing here; and no-one is bringing magic back to these lands, _Emrys_. Not after we spent so long getting rid of it.”

Oh, _shit_. No wonder they had been so hell bent on finding him. His expression hardened.

“There it is,” Merrain cooed. “Ready to stop hiding behind the mask now?”

“Get on with it, Merrain,” her father called, exasperated, and she shrugged.

“Fine. Do you know what this is?” She held the golden bracer up for him to study, and he couldn’t stop himself from examining it. It was pretty, like something a lady might wear to a ball. No lady had ever been that stupid, however. Merlin could feel the power rolling of off it in waves – as though some previous victim had poured their last fragments of magic into carving an invisible warning into the very essence of the metal. He jerked back in shock as he recognised the runes, and Merrain smiled. “This is a witch-bind. I know, I know, it’s hardly an original tool for a witch-finder to be carrying around. You can feel it though, can’t you? You know that this one’s special – made just for someone like you. But here’s the kicker. We didn’t bring it. Gwaine did.”

No. No. What had Gwaine said? That he’d known for days? Merlin glanced past the hunter, barely meeting the knight’s eyes as he shook his head frantically. Not Gwaine. Gwaine wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_.

“I found it!” the knight yelled. “On the man in the markets! Merlin! I was keeping it safe-” he broke off coughing as another fist made the acquaintance of his stomach, and Merrain tutted.

“Keeping it safe, out here in the forest? And what exactly were you doing out here, Gwin? Skulking after our friend like that? How very _suspicious_. One might wonder if you weren’t planning on doing our job for us. Not so righteous now? After all,” she said sharply, turning back to Merlin, “he was one of us, Emrys. A witch finder. Did you know that? Not only that… but he's my _brother_.”

“No,” Merlin said hoarsely, the chill of shock creeping into his limbs. “No. Gwaine’s father is dead.”

“To true,” the older man interjected with a snort. “You’ve had your fun, Merrain. Back off.” Scowling, the hunter obeyed, dusting off her knees and patting his head sympathetically before striding over to stand beside her father. Merlin bit back a snarl. “And good riddance at that. His father was an insufferable fool. His mother, on the other hand, was a woman of rare beauty and intellect.”

“You don’t talk about my mother,” Gwaine wheezed, and Merlin stared wildly between them, trying to make sense of it all. It was too much. The hammering in his head surged to the point where all he wanted was to bury it in his hands and scream.

“Why not? She was my wife. It’s not my fault she died. She was with child when we married,” the hunter added offhandedly, for Merlin’s benefit. “I didn’t know. But she was too far along for it to be mine, and I agreed to take it in to avoid any unpleasantness. I would have named him my heir, but… well. You can see how he repaid my kindness.”

“You’re a murdering psychopath, Maildun,” Gwaine spat. “And you’re not my father.”

“Details. Doesn’t Camelot still celebrate its festivals with a good beheading? You ended up as the protector of Emrys himself, boy. Which of us is the greater monster?”

“I don’t-”

“Stop talking. I tire of this.” Maildun gestured to his men and women, who dragged Gwaine forwards until they were nearly standing chest to chest. “I’m sure that you can appreciate the effort that went into this endeavour. Catching Emrys himself… there would be no greater honour for our house. I could simply kill him, but that’s so boring. And how would we prove our victory over magic? It makes so much more sense to be more creative. Should I sell him to Lot? One of the other king’s, perhaps? The Sarrum pays well these days. Or I suppose I could simply keep him myself, and show him off to house guests like a prize piece of art.”

“You bastard,” Gwaine spat, and Merlin swayed on the spot, dazed. He should be doing something. He could blast them all into pieces, if only his head would just stop-  
“Perhaps. I’m not evil, though. I’ll offer you a way to save your… friend. All you have to do is… come back with us. Be my heir. You were one of my best, Gwaine, and we have missed you talents.”

“Father!” Merrain yelped in shock, outraged, but Maildun ignored her.

“Go to hell,” Gwaine snarled. “Never. I’d rather gouge out my own eyes.”

“Would it really be so hard? You’d be the lord of my lands. You’d be back with the only family you ever knew. And Emrys wouldn’t spend the rest of his life in a living hell. I promise to leave him and Camelot in peace.”

“Gwaine,” Merlin rasped, struggling to make himself heard but certain through his pain that he should be screaming no, no, don’t you dare. It came out far more pitiful than had intended. Defeat sparked in his friend’s eyes.

Maildun saw it too. “Good,” he said softly. “I’ll even let you take him back to Camelot, with a couple of guards to ensure your cooperation. We’ll be waiting… around about here, I suppose. Best not take too long.” He nodded to the guards, who dropped Merlin like a sack of bricks. He grunted, trying to soften the impact, but his shaking arms went out from under him and he collapsed onto the ground. “Don’t be surprised if they have to run a couple of errands in the castle. After all, the Powysi heirs haven’t left the safety of their homeland in the last decade. If I’m losing Ermys, I’d be a fool to pass up that particular opportunity.”

He turned to walk away, and Merlin was dimly aware of the father and daughter turning to walk way. “See you soon, Gwin,” Merrain’s voice hissed venomously, fading away into the distance, but Merlin was too busy focusing on his breathing to care.

He’d underestimated the damage to his body. His vision swam. His lungs ached, refusing to expand all the way. His muscles quivered, and his magic… He vaguely heard Gwaine wrench away from the two hunters holding him, but his friend’s comforting touch never came, no matter how much he needed someone to help hold him together.

Instead, rough hands gripped both of his shoulders, hauling him up from where he held himself on hands and knees. “The great Emrys,” someone said viciously. “This is what everyone’s so afraid of. Look.” A hand fisted in his hair, and Merlin nearly choked as his head was forced backwards, the light of the remaining torch clawing at his eyes. “He can’t even fight back.”

“Shove another bolt in him. I don’t want to take any chances,” a second, higher voice replied.

“Yeah, alright,” the first voice agreed, and Merlin couldn’t even find the strength to struggle. He was vaguely aware of something sharp being waved in his face, and all that he took in was danger before his magic lashed out like a cornered animal.

He felt the power blossom out from his body, and knew that the hands were gone, but past that he wasn’t aware of what happened to the witch finders. Where was Gwaine? He needed Gwaine. He needed to tell him not to go. Not to go with Maildun…

Strong hands levered him gently upwards, and Merlin thought he heard someone saying his name, over and over, interspersed with something that sounded like sorry. All he knew for sure was that he was being held close, and that the arms around him were warm and comforting and safe. Gwaine ran a hand through his friend’s hair as he drifted off into merciful unconsciousness, not even bothering to look at the obliterated bodies of the two hunters. Instead he rocked his friend back and forth, counting Merlin’s breathes and treasuring each and every one of them.

The patrol found them like that the next day – found him clinging to Merlin’s unmoving form, snarling at anyone who dared approach and hugging his friend close, as if that alone could tether Merlin to life.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
> .....
> 
> Sooooo.... welcome back Merrain! What do you think? Was that unexpected? I did try to put in a couple of little bits of foreshadowing earlier on, (not sure of them using the same swear words counts) but, um... yeah. That's my take on Gwaine's backstory. I'm also a bit worried that the truth about the gold thing (witch-bind) was too generic, but I do have a bit of a twist planned concerning that, so hopefully it's okay. Please let me know what you think of this!! BAMF!Merlin is just around the corner ^_^
> 
> Also, as everyone who commented voted for a happier ending for the twins, I've recommenced my original plot concerning them. See you tomorrow!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With too many different forces closing in around him, Merlin takes a few moments to stop... and come up with a plan. If only he'd stop getting unwelcome visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Next chapter! I was a bit rushed while I was putting up yesterday's update, so apologies for any mistakes in the formatting. I went back over it, and I think I caught them all. 
> 
> And without further ado... ONWARDS!!

“Gwaine.”

“Don’t, Arthur.”

“Gwaine, you’re hurt. You have to let Gaius look at you.”

“Gaius can damn well look at Merlin. I’m fine.”

“Gwaine!” Arthur cried, frustrated, trying to look as though he were holding it together. “Gaius has already looked at Merlin. He’s alive, do you hear me? Merlin’s going to live. You saved him.”

Gwaine looked up with haunted eyes from where he had collapsed, just outside of the physician’s chambers. “Don’t say that, Arthur. Don’t say I saved him.”

“But-”

“I should have tried harder.” He should have. He shouldn’t have trusted Merrain. He should have knocked her out the moment he’d seen her. He’d known that it might be them, from the moment he’d seen the first assassin in the markets. He’d prepared himself for it, even. But it had been so, so long, and some stupid part of him had been almost happy to see her. He’d just… frozen. And Merlin had paid the price.

_The patrol had arrived soon after the sun cleared the horizon, and Gwaine hadn’t even thought to question their arrival until he’d seen the witch twins amongst them. It had taken everyone a full fifteen minutes to pry Merlin out of his grasp, and even then he’d only let go once he’d seen that it was Arthur, Arthur with his eyes wide with confusion, Arthur taking Merlin with infinite tenderness and placing his broken body in Percival’s arms._

_Leon and Elyan had helped him to his feet, supporting him when his stiff legs threatened to buckle out from under him – but he’d only had eyes for Merlin, and for the twins as they watched him carried away, something frightening and feral in their expressions. Heilyn had met his gaze for the briefest of moments – but in that time they had reached an agreement. If either of the twins ever met the people who had done this, they would tear them apart. Gwaine barely even stopped to consider why they cared._

“Can you tell me what happened?” Arthur asked quietly. “I need you to focus. Can you tell me who did this?”

“I’m not an invalid, Arthur,” Gwaine said harshly, and the king’s jaw tightened.

“No. But you’re in shock. Some of the bodies in that clearing had been ripped to pieces, Gwaine, and you’re the only one… functioning who knows why.”

“They turned their backs on me,” was all that Gwaine said… and after a moment of silence, Arthur seemed to reach the conclusion that it was better not to ask.

Gwaine had failed to protect Merlin from the witch finders. He wasn’t about to give up his secret now, no matter what.

_There had been questions, voices babbling in shock and horror. He remembered Arthur swearing, cursing, kicking out at dead branches and looking more lost than Gwaine had ever seen him. The knight had felt like a ghost, drifting amongst the people clamouring around Merlin, lifting him limply onto a horse with Percy supporting him, and sending the two of them flying towards Camelot with all the speed they could muster – Arthur racing furiously after them._

_They’d told him that the twins had demanded that the king be roused from bed, hours after their dinner had concluded. Apparently, their story was that one of their household had been out in the woods, and had seen the beginnings of the attack and run back to report it. It was codswallop, Gwaine knew, but he couldn’t find it in himself to say anything. He was too grateful._

“He’ll be alright,” Arthur said, again and again, almost feverishly. “We’ll find whoever did it. We’ll find them.”

Gwaine nodded hollowly, jerking upright when the door to Gaius’ chambers creaked open and the physician poked his head through, looking as though he had aged ten years. “He’s awake,” Gaius said simply, and Gwaine and Arthur almost fell over each other in their haste to get inside and see their friend.

_In the moments before Leon remembered that he was hurt, too, and ushered him into his own horse, Gwaine noticed something gleaming in the dirt where Merrain had abandoned it. He bent down and picked up the witch-bind, turning in over in his hands, trying to crush it in his palm. It resisted all efforts, of course – and after a few moments he pocketed it, without really knowing why, even though every fibre of his being wanted to throw it as far as he could, to bury it where it would never be found again._

It took a long time for Arthur to leave, but he was the king. He couldn’t linger forever, however much he might have wanted to stay. Gwaine didn’t budge, and eventually Gaius left them in peace, heading out into the main room now that Merlin was no longer critical.

The knight let himself take in every bruise, every cut and abrasion as Merlin drifted in and out of lucidity. Bones had been broken and reset. Jagged cuts had been stitched and bandaged. Nothing could cover the lacework of purple and blue covering Merlin’s face and swelling his features until they were nigh on unrecognisable, but his breathing had eased, and the blood been cleaned away.

Gathering the courage to start speaking was hard – but for once finding the right words wasn’t. “You’re my first – best – friend,” Gwaine said quietly, not really knowing if Merlin could hear him. “You’re worth every hour I’ve spent in this city. And you’re worth leaving it all behind, too.” He pulled the witch-bind out of his pocket, and placed it carefully on the bedside table. “This is how I knew you had magic. When I realised the hunter had a soulstone, too… I knew he hadn’t made a mistake. I know witch finders. Merrain wasn’t lying. I was one, before I ran away. And I don’t know whether you think I was going to use it, but… here. Take it. Melt it down. Blow it up. Throw it off a cliff. I never want to see it again, and nothing – not even magic – could ever change the fact that you are my friend, and that I will always look out for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t the person you needed, or deserved, and that I failed to protect you. And I promise, if anyone tries to hurt you again, I’ll die before I let them.”

Merlin smiled sleepily, his eyes rolling slightly in their sockets and his grasp on reality tenuous at best. “You didn’t fail,” he chuckled. “You’re the best… best friend…”

Something tight eased in his chest at Merlin’s deep, even breath. But, on his mother’s grave, he swore he would keep his promise. He took one last, good look at Merlin, at these rooms, out the window at the city in all its morning glory. Then he rose silently, not wanting to disturb his friend, and drifted out the door. He didn’t expect to be coming back here ever again.

“Goodbye… Emrys,” Gwaine whispered. And then he was gone.

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

Merlin slept fitfully after Gwaine left. It took him a while to realise that the knight was actually gone, and by that time he had remembered… something. There was something that he needed to say. Something that Gwaine was going to do, that he needed to stop. And he’d he needed to tell Gaius – the twins, they were…

He tried to struggle upwards, but one of his arms had been splinted, and the other wouldn’t bear his weight. He was in his own room, he knew that much. Arthur and been there. But he was gone too. Merlin tried to call out – maybe Gaius would know where Gwaine was – but the effort was too much, and his throat refused to cooperate. He collapsed back onto his pillow, and drifted uneasily away.

The next time he woke, the sun had moved so that the light streaming in through his window crept over his bed rather than pooling beneath the window. Some small measure of strength had returned to his limbs, and everything came crashing back upon him at once. The twins wanted him to leave Camelot. And Gwaine was doing just that.

When he fully registered how much time he had wasted sleeping – had it only been a few hours? Lords he hoped so – Merlin lurched upright, the fog of whatever medication Gaius had given him burning away. He bit back a coughing fit, using his good arm to swing his legs over the side of his cot and moaning at the pain that sprang up all over his body at the movement. The physician’s part of his brain catalogued the worst of the damage – broken ribs, broken arm, head spinning lightly, maybe a couple of fractured fingers, too. He was stiff and achy… just about everywhere, actually. And his magic felt strange. Like it had run a marathon, and was still recuperating. The feeling was nauseating, but he ignored it, instead focusing on making the gruelling transition from sitting to standing.

“Oh, don’t get up on my account.”

Merlin shot to his feet so fast that he nearly overbalanced, biting down savagely on his tongue to hold back a scream as his broken ribs ground excruciatingly together beneath their bindings. He backed up quickly, more so that the wall would keep him upright than in the hopes that it would provide any sort of security. Merrain only smiled when his good hand twitched reflexively upwards, eying him predatorily.

“Please, Emrys. Don’t insult the both of us. I could have killed you in your sleep if I’d wanted to. It’s been strictly forbidden by my father.”

Merlin didn’t relax out of his defensive stance, his heart hammering and his face throbbing with ghost pains where she’d backhanded him. “Where’s Gwaine?” he demanded, infusing his voice with magic to stop to keep it from shaking.

Merrain sighed, and for the first time he noticed that she wasn’t just toying with the runed dagger in her hands – she was using it to idly pare back her nails. He gritted his teeth, feeling rather insulted. “And that right there is why I’m here,” Merrain said lazily, the metal studding her clothing scraping mournfully against the wall as she lounged backwards. “We need to have a chat about my dearest brother. Interesting gift that he left you, by the way. I wonder what it’s supposed to mean?”

Merlin quickly glanced to the side, catching sight of the witch-bind sitting innocuously beside his cot. Something of Gwaine’s words filtered back through is mind. “It was a promise,” he said quietly, and Merrain shrugged.

“Odd kind of promise, if you ask me. And don’t bother calling for help. There’s no one around to hear.”

Red hot fury erupted inside him, and his damaged magic reacted accordingly. Merrain’s smug demeanour vanished as some invisible force picked her up by the throat, smashing her back against the wall with her toes dangling an inch above the floor.

“What did you do to Gaius?” Merlin snarled as she choked, feet kicking uselessly. “If you hurt him-”

“No!” the hunter gasped, clawing for breath. “No, he – he left. One of the knights. Ector!”

The rage vanished as quickly as it had come and Merlin dropped her, the both of them stumbling back against their respective walls for completely different reasons. Merlin watched in shock as she bent over double, heaving in air through pale lips. He hadn’t meant to do that. He bit back ridiculous the urge to apologise and ask if she was okay.

“You actually care about them,” Merrain wheezed, hauling herself back upright and eying him strangely. “The old man and… Gwaine. They mean something to you.”

“They’re my family,” Merlin said shortly.

“That never meant much to me. I try to kill members of _my_ family on a regular basis.” Merrain coughed, then regathered her composure. It was almost impressive, the way she straightened and met his eyes directly – taking back control as though he hadn’t nearly strangled her without so much as twitching a muscle. She was Gwaine’s sister, alright. “But I’ll take it. I need you to do something for me, Emrys.”

Merlin bit back a laugh, shuddering and nearly falling when it jolted every single broken bone in his body. “Why on earth would I help you?” he managed, his legs starting to shake with the effort of standing upright. He slid a couple of inches further down the wall, tucking his good arm up under his ribs to alleviate some of the pressure.

“Because if you don’t, Gwaine is going to meet an unfortunate end,” Merrain said harshly. “We came here for _you_. We spent _months_ finding you, and preparing all of this.” She rolled her eyes as he gestured questioningly. “The two hunters that you met were supposed to watch you, to find your weaknesses. When Gallow got cocky and attacked you in the markets, my father set out to fix the damage. Then Stephen tries to kill you in the middle of the damn castle before we get here. Maybe he thought that we’d go easy on him if you were already dead. Either way, I would have killed them personally for messing up so badly if your knights hadn’t taken care of them for me. Nice little set up you’ve got, actually – knights of Camelot falling over themselves to protect you, rather than beheading you on the spot.”

“What does that have to do with-”

“It’s everything,” Merrain hissed. “You are Emrys, the greatest prize a witch finder could hope for! And my father is throwing that away just to get my darling brother back. It was the best day of my life when he left and I became heir, Emrys. I didn’t have to live in his shadow anymore, or hear him whining about _moral_ s and what terrible people we were. _I_ did everything my father asked. _I_ fought to make out family great. I was the most accomplished hunter of our generation, but father doted over _him_ , because he was the eldest. And now he’s back.”

Her eyes hardened. "I’ve fought too damn hard to have him waltz back home and take my place. My father thinks that I am here scouting out the twins. I hear that our two guards met an unfortunate end, by the way. But I don’t care about the Powysi anymore.”

“Then what _do_ you want?” Merlin asked quietly, not at all liking the zealous gleam in her eyes.

“I want you to convince Gwaine to come back to Camelot. I don’t care how. I don’t care if you have to give yourself up. Gwaine does not make it across the border, or I’ll kill him myself.”

“You’d kill your brother?” Merlin said, aghast, but Merrain didn’t so much as flinch.

“Yes,” she said simply. “And I dare say he knows it. We’ll be leaving soon, Emrys, and something tells me you’re the only one who could make him stay. You don’t have long to save him. So save him. You’ll only get one chance.”

He stared. She was actually serious. She’d casually walked into the castle to ask him to give himself up so that she wouldn’t feel the need to kill her own brother. “Look at me,” he said eventually. “What am I supposed to do? I doubt that I could even make it that far into the woods like this.”

“You’re Emrys,” she said dismissively. “You’ll think of something. And I can hear someone coming, so I guess it’s time for my dramatic exit.” She paused, lowering her voice, and Merlin vaguely heard the main door opening creakily in the distance. “I can stall my father until you show up. Remember Emrys. One chance, and that’s it. If you truly care about my brother… you’ll make the most of it.” And with that she turned and hopped up onto the window frame, disappearing casually through the opening before he could protest.

Merlin stood still for a moment, stunned. Then he glanced back over at the witch-bind, hearing Gaius making his shuffling way up towards his small chamber. Merlin’s hand snaked out and grabbed the bracer, tucking it into his trouser pocket swiftly while his mind raced. Not to go after Gwaine was unthinkable. But he couldn’t… couldn’t rush into it. He couldn’t give himself up, because that would mean leaving Arthur. Which meant that he had to be smart.

He had to do something that they wouldn’t expect. His hand tightened around the bracer in his pocket – and a small smile gradually worked its way over this face.

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

His smile lasted precisely until he realised that Gaius wasn’t alone.

The physician bustled up the steps and into his room, pausing in concern when he realised that Merlin was awake. Arthur trailed behind him, craning his neck and frowning in disapproval.

“Merlin! What are you doing up?” Gaius exclaimed. “You should be resting!”

“I-” Merlin started, glancing over at the window to make sure that Merrain was truly gone. He supposed that it would be too much to hope that she had slipped and taken the fastest route to the base of the castle. “I just – where’s Gwaine?”

“He’s completely alright. You were the one we were worried about,” Gaius said soothingly, and Merlin wanted to tell him that no, that wasn’t what he had meant, but the physician was already ushering him back towards the bed, muttering something about bandages and clean breaks. Merlin sat down grudgingly, biting back a sigh of relief when the weight came off of his legs.

“Are you all right, Merlin?” Arthur said hesitantly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin muttered, fending off whatever potion Gaius was trying to force him to ingest. He couldn’t afford to go back to sleep. “I’m fine, Gaius! Ouch!”

Merlin glared up at Arthur, who folded the arm he’d just used to swat Merlin gently over the back of the head and scowled. “You’re _not_ fine, Merlin. We found you half dead in the middle of the forest. You look like you got run over repeatedly by a battle-horse, and Gaius said you shouldn’t have even woken up fully for at least another day or two.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“You idiot!” Arthur cried vehemently, and Merlin paused, taken aback. Gaius politely found something rather interesting to study on the far wall. “I thought I told you not to leave the castle! Someone’s trying to kill you, Merlin, or is that too much for your tiny little brain to comprehend?”

“Technically, you told me not to leave the castle without Gwaine. And Gwaine was with me,” Merlin pointed out before he could stop himself. Arthur didn’t need to know that Gwaine’s presence had been both unexpected and unwanted.

“Fat lot of good that did,” the king muttered. “You’re just… I don’t know what would have happened if the Powysi hadn’t…”

Yes. The Powysi. Merlin’s heart sank slightly. Something else that he’d have to balance in the delicate web of a plan that had started to grow in his mind. Merlin had no doubt that Rhys’ dream-seeing was what had allowed them to know he was in trouble. The question was… what else had they seen?

Arthur shook himself, smoothing out his expression, but for a moment Merlin saw clearly just how afraid the king had been. It was enough to make Merlin hesitate. Maybe he should think of something else. If only there was time…

“Of course, seeing as you can’t be trusted to behave rationally on your own, I’m going to have to make sure that nothing like this happens again, until we figure out what’s going on,” Arthur continued, donning his regalness, and any fuzzy feelings grumbled in disappointment, curled tightly up into ball, and went back into hibernation. “One of the knights is going to stay with you until the Powysi leave. And they’ll make sure you don’t decide to… go herb picking, or whatever you were doing.”

“What – no, no way, Arthur,” Merlin protested, but the king just smirked.

“What would the prince and princess think if I didn’t show that I could protect my own citizens? Besides, I can’t conduct an investigation while I’m worrying about the treaty – this has already upset it enough. We had to delay the initial discussions because of you.”

The warlock settled for glaring at the king. How was he supposed to save Gwaine if he was being babysat? Not that the knights were especially hard to ditch...

The two of them started discussing the treaty – when to re-schedule for? Something like that – while Gaius fiddled with the bandages wrapped tightly around Merlin’s ribs. Neither of them seemed to mind when he drifted off into his thoughts, running over his scheme, developing and growing it, and wishing grudgingly that he didn’t have to leave the warmth and comfort of his chambers. Gaius finally seemed happy that the bandages would keep his broken ribs firmly in place, and moved into his arm; and Merlin froze.

Gaius was fiddling with the bandages on his chest. His bare chest. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Which meant that he hadn’t been wearing a shirt while Merrain was… visiting.

Suddenly the look in her eyes took on a whole different, decidedly disturbing meaning.

“Are you alright, Merlin? Do you need the pain medication?” Gaius queried in concern, and Merlin just shook his head mutely.

_Emrys._

Merlin jumped again, and this time Gaius tutted and grabbed the bottle. It took Merlin a good minute or two to fend off both his mentor and the king, both of them alternately cajoling and threatening in an attempt to get him to take the potion. The dual presence settled comfortably in the back of his mind, watching in amusement.

 _Your king does care for you, I suppose,_ Heilyn said grudgingly. _Do you see now why we need to be able to keep an eye on you? This would not have happened if you had listened to us._

 _You couldn’t leave me alone for, oh, a couple of hours?_ Merlin asked acerbically, not really in the mood to deal with them. _Some people call this stalking, you know_.

 _And others call it loyalty,_ Rhys rebutted. _It is how we knew that you were in danger. We hope that you would reconsider your attitude towards us after this… occurrence. It will make everything so much more pleasant. Although we should thank you for delaying the negotiations, however much we might disapprove of the method – there is only so much Pendragon doggerel that I can take before I throw someone through a window._

 _It_ is _awkward when they begin discussing extradition of sorcerers in the clauses of the treaty,_ Heilyn agreed delicately. _And I think you’ll find, brother dearest, that the term you’re looking for is defenestration. I’ll be happy to illustrate it the next time some geriatric fool asks whether we prefer burnings or beheadings in Powys._

Merlin winced. Despite Arthur’s best efforts, there were still some of Uther’s old court lingering around who held views that even the king found confronting. _Sorry about that,_ he said, and he could feel surprise oozing across the link.

_It’s hardly your fault. And it’s just the sort of thing that we will get rid of once you find the Once and Future King._

_How I look forward to it,_ Rhys said with relish. _Well, we’ll leave you be, Emrys. Try not to get yourself killed before we all depart. We’ll be keeping an eye on you, just in case, so rest easy._

With that they vanished from his mind, leaving him to listen to Arthur and Gaius discussing whether a guard should be posted on their door during Merlin’s recovery. Merrain’s words wound their way back through his mind, and he briefly despaired. Gwaine was out there, right now – and the entirety of Camelot suddenly seemed hell-bent on stopping Merlin from saving his friend.

Merlin sighed. Psychotic witch finders. Sorcerers out to stop him. His magic acting strangely, his body hurting like hell, a friend in need, and Arthur obliviously getting in his way. It must be Tuesday in Camelot.

He needed to do some serious scheming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *MANIACAL LAUGHTER*
> 
> That's right - Merlin is actually going to be _intelligent_! How the tables have turned - now _he's_ the one rescuing _Gwaine_! MWAHAHAHAHA!!!
> 
> ...I'm a touch excited about the next couple of chapters ^_^ Um, with the bit about Merlin being shirtless - this is just before season 5, so he's buff, and, well... I have no excuses. It just happened. I didn't even mean to write it; my fingers just went on their merry way and typed it out before I'd realised what they were doing. Merrain will be sticking around for a while - but am I hinting at a possibility of romance between them? Not really. I'm a diehard Freylin shipper, plus I don't really write a lot of romance, and there's, you know, the whole fact that he's a warlock and she's a bit of a psycho who hunts and kills warlocks (I think that several people might come to my house with pitch-forks if I put them together :D) But it was kind of funny, so I left it in there.
> 
> See you soon ^_^
> 
> Next update should be towards the end of the week, RL permitting :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin is sneaky, and Arthur is demanding when it comes to screen time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've waited long enough for this. ONWARDS!

It took far too long for Arthur and Gaius to leave him – Arthur to return to Gwen and the Powysi, Gaius to Sir Ector, who had not yet recovered enough to have been moved to the physician’s chambers. When this was all over, Merlin was going to track that knight down and either throttle him for his bad timing, or kiss him right on the mouth. He hadn’t decided which yet. It would probably depend on how the rest of the evening played out.

Of course, they had both waited just long enough for Arthur’s appointed babysitter to show up. But then, Leon was less accustomed than Gaius to Merlin’s wiles.

“Are you absolutely sure that this isn’t it?” the knight said dubiously, holding the shrivelled leaf in his hand up against the lovingly inked sketches in Gaius’ encyclopaedia with a frown. “They look exactly the same.”

“No they don’t,” Merlin called back surely from where he was still propped up against his pillow. “They’re completely different.”

“You know that you can’t actually see the drawing from up there, Merlin.”

“I’ve seen it a hundred times before. The plant you’re holding is jimson weed. Prolonged contact can cause delirium, just so you know.”

The knight dropped the harmless leaves onto the table as though they had burned him, wiping his hands on his tunic with an expression of distaste for good measure. “Why is it that a physician’s chamber doesn’t have a single leaf of this miraculous plant if it’s such a useful painkiller?” he said stiffly, glancing around furtively as though trying to find something with which to wash his hands. “Surely there is something else here that you could use. Or I could fetch Gaius-”

“Not necessary. He’s got his hands full keeping Ector’s insides from becoming his outsides,” Merlin cut his friend off cheerfully, putting on a brave face and hunching a bit further in upon himself. “But if you really don’t have time to run down to the markets, I suppose I could wait until he gets back… it’s only a few broken ribs. I can handle it.” He paused. “Oh. And my arms. And there’s definitely something funny with my leg. And my head-”

“Alright, alright!” Leon exclaimed, throwing his hands with a chagrined expression. “Will you be alright by yourself until I get back?”

A strange combination of guilt and smugness surged through Merlin’s insides. “Of course I will,” he grouched, and Leon didn’t seem to find anything out of the ordinary in his voice.

“Just… stay there,” the knight called up with a fondly exasperated smile. He took a few hesitant steps in Merlin’s direction as though he were about to change his mind, then shook his head and turned to hurry out the door. “There are guards outside. I’ll be right back!” floated back from the landing, and Merlin’s small grin faded. Ah. Damn. He hadn’t heard the guards arrive outside. Then he shrugged. Part two, then.

Well. Part three. Part two was actually getting up out of the bed.

 _You’ve already done it once,_ Merlin scolded himself as he threw back the blanket and grabbed his left leg with his one good hand, twisting his body and heaving it over the side of the bed. He did the same thing with the right one so that he was effectively sitting instead of lying down, ignoring the stretching, pulling, itching hurt that jolted through his entire body and instead focusing on grounding himself; pulling one shuddering breath in, forcing another out, planting his bootless feet on the wooden floor and tensing his good arm. One immense effort sent him stumbling upright and into the opposite wall, which jarred his bad shoulder but at least kept him from falling on his face. He did a quick scan for his shoes, and groaned when he found them around the other side of the bed. Mentally he calculated the number of steps before coming to the decisive conclusion that boots were overrated.

A shirt, however, was absolutely essential. He took a few wobbly, unassisted steps across the room towards his wardrobe, and promptly tripped and went crashing into the thing when his left leg went abruptly dead. The bang echoed through the small chambers and Merlin bit back a curse, hurriedly fumbling with the doors to grab the first clean shirt that his fingers came across. He got about that far before realising the grand flaw with his plan – one of his arms was still strapped to a bloody great splint and hanging awkwardly from its fresh sling. This time he did swear, loudly, and he heard someone rap sharply on the door outside.

“Are you alright in there?” one of the guards called. Merlin forced himself to steady.

“Fine, thanks,” he yelled in what he hoped was a carefree tone.

The guard mustn’t have thought so, because Merlin got about two seconds before he heard the reply, “Don’t panic, we’re coming in.”

With a rude gesture towards the door Merlin abandoned the shirt as a lost cause and tried to look as innocent as possible as it swung inwards, two guards that he faintly recognised peering cautiously through. Their eyes latched onto him in surprise, and he waved casually back as though one of his legs _wasn’t_ dragging uselessly underneath him and the wardrobe and doorframe _weren’t_ the only things keeping him standing. “You’re supposed to be resting,” one of the two said in an accusatory tone, his partner nodding vigorously. “We’re under strict instruction-”

“Er, yeah. About that. I’m a bit stuck.” Merlin gestured vaguely towards his leg with an apologetic grimace, his fingers latching onto something more useful than clothing hidden in the depths of his cupboard – behind the door and out of sight of the guards. He slipped it carefully behind his back. “Could you give me a hand?”

The guards exchanged glances and shrugged, relaxing slightly. They trundled through the physician’s chambers and into his own, the leftmost guard proffering his mailed arm helpfully. Merlin smiled back, then let his eyes go wide and pointed wildly out the window. “What’s _that_?”

Unsurprisingly, both men grabbed at the hilts of their swords and spun around violently. Feeling horrible, Merlin pulled the whetstone out from behind his back and whacked them both over the head as hard as he could with it one handed. The first guard crumpled straight away, but the second one turned around with a startled expression and a slightly glazed look in his eyes. “What the-” Merlin promptly hit him again, and this time the man collapsed beside his companion.

He dropped the stone a quickly as he could, staring wild-eyed down at the two guards. “This is going to be hard to explain,” Merlin muttered hysterically to himself as one of them moaned quietly. Then he turned and hobbled as quickly as he could across Gaius’ chambers, slipping and sliding along using tables and the walls for balance until his leg decided to wake back up with a maddening wave of pins and needles. Merlin halted against the wall on the landing outside, looking down at the staircase beneath him in despair as spots danced over his vision. This was a very, very bad idea.

The journey down went better than he would have expected. The curvature of the staircase actually turned out to be extremely helpful – Merlin found that he could make small rushes from wall to wall, catching himself on the stone before he could trip over and go tumbling to his death, and turning to angle downwards again. By the time he reached the base of the stairwell his muscles had woken back up and remembered their job-descriptions; he was no longer relying on outside forces to keep himself steady. Which was good, because here he reached his greatest challenge. People.

He had a plan for this, too. Merlin paused just out of sight of the main corridor below and closed his eyes, reaching for his magic. It skittered, coltish, and tried to dart out of his reach – somewhere where it could continue to heal him in peace. Having none of that, Merlin grabbed hold of it firmly, not bothering to try and mould it or weave anything fancy. Instead he simply pushed it through his own body, letting it conform to his needs as easy as breathing. Then he took a breath and took the final steps, out into plain view of anyone watching.

A maidservant hurried past almost the exact moment he stepped out into the open, her arms piled high with linens, and Merlin tensed as she glanced passingly in his direction. Something cold fluttered in his stomach as her eyes glazed over and skated past him as though he were nothing more interesting than a mark on the wall. He hadn’t made himself invisible; not quite. More… unremarkable. Unimportant. Not worth noticing or remembering. It was a trick that he had perfected in Ealdor and, hopefully, one that would keep Rhys’ magical sight occupied as well. _Monster_ , something familiar whispered in the back of his mind as the maid hurried on and out of sight, none the wiser that there had been anything watching her at all. _Dangerous. Dangerous and unnatural_. He clamped down in the voice and banished it, turning to make his weary way out from the safety of Camelot. He had work to do.

Through the entire length of the castle and the city below, not a single person marked his passing.

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

Arthur’s first thought when he left Merlin’s small chamber was to round up his knights immediately and organise a hunting party to track down whoever had been responsible for ordering the attack – and to separate them from their extremities. With extreme prejudice. His gut told him that the two mutilated bodies that they had found had been lackeys, not the puppeteer, and every part of him insisted that the anyone who tried to harm one of his people simply _could not_ be allowed to live. Perhaps luckily for the future of any alliance, however, Guinevere caught him before he could make it very far. After assuring her that her friend would eventually be alright Arthur somehow found himself chivvied in the opposite direction to where the Powysi were waiting, and seated in the Lesser Hall in front of a table piled horrifyingly high with documents and missives, with his wife beside him and the twins side by side at the opposite end of the table.

“How is your servant, King Arthur?” Rhys asked delicately once they had seated, and Arthur couldn’t help looking at the prince strangely. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the twins and their odd intervention. He was, of course, unendingly grateful that they had somehow known that Merlin needed assistance – but it was disconcerting that their people had even being paying close enough attention to recognise Merlin of all people out in the woods, let alone know that it would be acceptable to rouse the king from bed on the servant’s account. Most royalty wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. Even Father would have left Merlin to his fate.

“He is recovering,” Arthur said simply, wanting his servant safely back out of the public eye and into anonymity, where Arthur could… no, certainly not look after him. But, yes. Keep the idiot out of harm’s way. “Camelot thanks you for aiding one of its citizens.”

“What are allies for?” was all that Heilyn said, her tone bland; almost bored. After that the pair seemed happy enough to let him steer the conversation away from Merlin and towards the mind-numbing logistics and figures laid out crisply before them, and Arthur found himself relaxing slightly at her apathy.

They had barely been there for an hour when a messenger slipped quietly through the doors, waiting politely for Gwen to finish laying out Camelot’s trade plans before hesitantly approaching the king. “Beg pardon, sire,” the lad whispered once Arthur had gestured his permission, “but it’s Sir Leon, he insists that he must speak with you immediately-”

“In a moment,” Arthur said distractedly, mind running through figures and trying to figure out how much lower they could feasibly drop tariffs between kingdoms. It wasn’t until Rhys and Heilyn looked up curiously from their side of the table and Gwen’s hand closed around his upper arm like a vice that his brain caught up with the implications of the messenger’s sentence. “No, wait! Send him in!” What had Merlin done now?

“Yes my lord.” The runner bobbed a bow and slipped out the doors and a moment later a harried looking Leon barged in noisily, pulling up short in mortification when he realised that he was intruding on a meeting of state.

“I- sire- if I could speak to you in private-”

The king glanced over at the twins, who inclined their heads in eerie synchrony. Muttering his excuses and squeezing Gwen’s hand tightly he rose and followed Leon out into the ante-chamber with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as his knight all but wrung his hands in front of him. “What’s the matter Leon?” he murmured once they were alone, harsher than he had intended. “Is Merlin-”

“He was fine last I saw him, sire,” Leon said hurriedly. “I couldn’t have been gone an hour, and there were guards on his door-”

“Leon, _what happened_?”

The knight swallowed. “He’s disappeared, sire. When I came back the guards had been knocked unconscious, and Merlin was just… gone.”

It was as though someone had driven a fist into his gut. No. _No_. This was supposed to be over, resolved with Merlin back home safe and on the mend. Good gods, he should have- “Fetch Gaius,” he commanded sharply, ignoring the way that he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “We need those guards awake and talking. And get Gwaine, find _someone_ who saw where they went-”

“Sire,” Leon interrupted hesitantly, “no-one has seen Gwaine in hours.”

Before he could process the implications of that a jagged screech from inside the Lesser Hall cut over whatever else Leon might have said, followed by a _bang_ and a small scream that sounded far too much like Guinevere. Arthur reacted faster than his knight, slamming the door back open and piling into the hall. His hand went immediately to his sword, only for him to remember that he hadn’t brought it into this meeting of allies. Then his jaw dropped and Merlin was chivvied unceremoniously to the back of his mind as he realised that Excalibur wouldn’t have done him much good even if he’d had it.

The first thing that he saw was the sword menacing a distraught Guinevere, and for a single moment tinted with scarlet that was all that mattered, and he very nearly charged regardless of whether or not it would be suicide. Then he took in the great oaken table that had previously graced the centre of the hall where it had been flipped on its side and shoved drunkenly up against the wall, pieced and shards of paper still fluttering to the floor like abandoned butterflies’ wings – and the veritable battalion of soldiers that had appeared in its place. Every single one of them was looking at him.

The king gaped. A strangled cry of _sorcery_ tried its hardest to claw its way out of his throat, but he clamped down on it by dint of one to many enemy incursions upon his supposedly impregnable stronghold. Even if no-one else had quite managed this before. Somehow, instead of staring like an idiot of calling for the guards or some other equally useless gesture, the king managed to pull himself up to his full height through the shock turning the edges of his vision white and say, very calmly, “Who is in charge here?” He was very proud of himself for that reaction.

The sea of blackened leather parted noiselessly in front of him, and the king felt a genuine flash of fear as he took in the initial impression of dark hair and feline grace and smug satisfaction, a sickening jolt in his pit of his stomach because they had gone _so long_ without a single hint of Morgana, _his sister-_

But it wasn’t her.

Arthur blinked at the woman in surprise. He’d never seen her before in his life, of that he was certain. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped before he could stop himself, and the woman smiled in delight.

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just here killing time. I’ve become good friends with your manservant over the past few days, though. He’s a dear, by the way.”

A tendon in Arthur’s jaw cracked ominously at the implication. This was the person who had hurt Merlin, then. He’d promised himself that if he ever found them he’d tear their heart out. He took an involuntary step forwards, hands curling into claws at his sides, but a small gasp brought him up short.

“Careful,” the woman said cheerfully as Gwen’s quick, shallow breaths picked up speed and the faintest trickle of blood ran sluggishly down her throat, staining the collar of her dress a deeper shade of crimson. “This is just going to be a civil chat with your friendly neighbourhood witchfinders. I have no quarrel with you or Camelot, King Arthur. Just here to make a pick up.”

Witchfinders? Aredian and some of the worst days of his life flashed through his mind. His father may have frequently employed the hunters, but Arthur had never once liaised with them through his short rule, and he didn’t intend to start now. “Where is Merlin?” Arthur demanded. To his fury, the woman simply laughed.

“I have no idea. I just gave him a bit of a push out the door,” she said with a shrug, and Arthur’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “No, not to pick up the _servant_ you silly little man. He turned out to be more than useless. Nope,” she said, popping the _p_ sound, “I’m here for _them_.”

Arthur took a moment to curse himself for a fool as he finally thought to look for the Powysi.

He found them on the opposite side of the dozen warriors. Both of the twins had been knocked unconscious and hung unceremoniously between two burly… assassins? Kidnappers? Whoever they were, they were startlingly efficient, even if such a public incursion within Camelot itself seemed downright suicidal. Ridiculously, the fight from the tournament flashed back through his mind. These soldiers must have been something else if they had managed to take both twins by surprise and so quickly overpower the person who had bested Gwaine. The second thing that his mind managed to come up with was _ah, bollocks_.

“I would rethink this if I were you,” Arthur said evenly. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but if you harm either the prince or the princess I will personally hunt you down and see you executed. Not to mention that you will incur the wrath of the entire kingdom of Powys.”

“I doubt that you’ll care one way or the other,” the woman said calmly. “We just saved you from aligning yourself to one of your greatest enemies. You should be thanking me.”

“What-”

“Didn’t anyone tell you that the prince and princess are sorcerers?”

…What?

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

Blissfully unaware of the state of affairs back in Camelot, Gwaine paced.

More because he knew that it was annoying Maildun than anything. His step-father had refused to tell him why they still hadn’t moved out, as though Merrain’s absence wasn’t glaringly obvious amongst the depleted camp of witch-finders. The first thing that had hit him when he swaggered into the witchfinders’ camp was how intimidatingly numerous his step-father’s followers remained, even after he and Merlin had cut through them; big, hard men and women who stood or crouched around the clearing, sharpening weapons, fletching arrows, carving runes into tempered steel, oozing the same pent up, feral energy that he could feel swirling through his own body. _How on earth had they managed to miss this?_ he thought uneasily, mapping their patrol routes in his mind and coming up a blank as to how a group of this size could have possibly found their way into Camelot and set up such an established camp without being noticed by the Crown. Most of the warriors he vaguely recognised. From the mutters that had swept through the dozen or so hunters, that recognition was returned. And this was only a hunting party. Perhaps, a small part of him reasoned as he flipped his hair back out of his face and offered a sharp-toothed grin to the witchfinders, daring them to challenge him as he sauntered into their midst, it would have been dangerous just letting this army fall into his sister’s hands after Maildun eventually died. With warriors like these and the right motivation, his sister wouldn’t just decimate the magical community – she could overrun the Five Kingdoms themselves if the mood ever took her.

He had briefly wondered what the rank and file thought of Maildun bringing him back into the fold after so many years. Some of them would remember him fondly – others he had no doubt were loyal to Merrain unto death, perhaps even above Maildun. She’d always been charismatic. Inspiring. The knight told himself firmly that he didn’t care what his absent sister was up to. A couple of years ago Camelot hadn’t been his problem – it could go back to being that way again. It would have been much easier to convince himself that was the case if his city had been lost in the dust behind them, rather than an obnoxious half hour’s walk away.

Eventually however, being Gwaine, he lost his patience.

“How much longer are we going to be standing around watching the grass grow, then?” he called out belligerently not long after the sun had passed its zenith. “Don’t we have places to be? People to harass? Mass murder to commit?”

A few feet away Maildun barely twitched, pouring intently over a missive marked with an official looking seal. A few of the hunters shifted, eying him in irritation, but no one bothered to reply. That didn’t quite sit right with Gwaine. If there was one thing that he had perfected over the years, it was the delicate art of annoying the hell out of people.

“Oh, come on lads, don’t be like that. This is a family reunion, isn’t it? Doesn’t anyone want to come over and have a chat?” He paused. “Ladies too. Sorry.”

“Shut up Gwaine,” someone muttered off to the right, and he zeroed in on his new target, delighting when he recognised them. Five words, he figured, would have the lad on his feet and hopefully set a few fists swinging… and from there it would be small work to stumble into a couple of other hunters, call out a few more insults in someone else’s voice, and set a brawl in motion that would hopefully convince his step-father that he was too much effort after all.

“That’s enough!”

Gwaine froze, his stomach lurching. Every single witchfinder in the camp suddenly stiffened and rose to their feet, ignoring Gwaine entirely to draw steel and cast like coursers as a slim figure stepped out from behind the tree-line. The knight’s mouth dropped open slightly, brawl forgotten and a choking, disbelieving laugh bubbling up inside him.

It was Merlin, of course. Merlin, who the last time Gwaine had seen him had been unconscious, immobile and broken. Merlin, who was shirtless and bootless and swathed in bandages, swaying dangerously and leaning against a tree for support, his entire body more bruise than pale skin with one arm strapped up uselessly in a sling. His friend who had no further place in events. And who he should have realised was far, far too bloody stubborn to just stay put and sit out anything.

Merlin, who had the golden witch-bind clamped firmly in place around his bare forearm, and a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order, here are my excuses... wasn't able to get a new computer until after New Year's. Was ridiculously busy at work. Got horribly ill. Had to catch up on all of the stuff I'd missed while ill. Finally sat down in front of my computer with a contented sigh, only to find that my Microsoft subscription was playing up and I had to fix it to use Word.
> 
> But, here I am! I'm a bit ~~very~~ rusty, and this chapter simply refused to flow... I hope it's okay. Please also check out the new oneshot series I'll be posting later today, it's much better I swear ;) And leave a comment on the way out! I've missed everyone, and I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> Also, a million thanks to everyone who messaged me during my hiatius. You all really kept me going, and this is for you. And, in other news, thanks to the womderful NewBeginnings In A Name is now available in Russian at http://www.fanfics.me/fic89722!


	9. Chapter 9

Letting the witch-bind click into place was one of the hardest things he had ever done. Harder than drinking poison. Harder even than throwing himself at the Doroccha. He kept putting it off, telling himself that it wasn’t absolutely necessary for a few more steps yet. Had anyone asked him to describe the sensation, once he could finally delay no longer, he would have told them to try sawing both of their legs off with a rusty blade... and then clawing their own eyes out for good measure. That might have come close to the experience.

The sudden _emptiness_ was stunning; a pain and a fire and a coldness that he remembered from Morgause’s chains, multiplied exponentially. Those at least had only caged the magic within his veins. It was still there, he realised once he’d caught himself on a tree and taken a few shuddering breaths - but buried deep, deep within him, in a sluggish crystallized mess that defied his body’s attempts to reach it. The world suddenly went flat and dim, cut down to sight and sounds and touch alone. It was lonely, he realised with a start, gasping for air. Lonely and quiet and close.

And it made him clumsy. The first time the forest conspired to tangle around his shaking legs and send him tumbling to the ground, once he’d finally managed to convince his body that it needed to start moving again, he simply gritted his teeth and got back up. The second time, he started muttering to himself under his breath; decidedly ignoring the fact that stealth was probably the best way to avoid ending up spitted on the end of an arrow.

“First it’s bloody witchfinders trying to kill me with their bare hands. Then some random magical royalty that I’ve never even _heard_ of decide they need to stage an intervention, because no-one considered that, oh, I don’t know, maybe the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth could _take care of his damn self_.” A branch hidden under the leaf litter suddenly made itself known by impaling his foot and he stifled a yell, stalking determinedly forward up over the rise in front of him regardless. “Then Gwaine figures that I need saving like some damsel in distress - oh, by the Triple Goddess, THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Merlin stomped down the other side of the small hill and into the fringes of the camp that rose up and sprawled out in front of him, ignoring the dozens of unfriendly eyes that immediately honed in on his presence in favour of searching out the brilliant red Camelot cloak in amongst them and glaring at its wearer. He felt a small rush of satisfaction as Gwaine gaped in astonishment, frozen in the middle of whatever idiocy he had been planning. Good. He hoped that the knight realised just how _pissed_ Merlin was. “Maildun!” the warlock barked, turning pointedly away from his friend to search for the warlord. He found the older man half risen in a crouch amidst the rest of the motionless witchfinders, appraising him inscrutably.

“Emrys,” Maildun said eventually, rising to stand fully. Surprise morphed into faint amusement as the other man’s gaze raked down Merlin’s battered form, taking in just how damaged he really was. “This is... unexpected.”

“I’d like my friend back please.”

Merlin set his jaw stonily as the warlord snorted in derision, eyeing him as though he had materialised purely for the other man’s entertainment. The rest of the witch finders seemed to take that as their cue to sheathe what weapons had been drawn and turn back to whatever they had been doing, chuckling dismissively. As though he were no-one. An annoyance - not a threat at all. Something cold coiled in his gut, the chill of the witch-bind running up through his spine to wrack him through with a wave of nauseous fatigue.

Their mistake.

“Gwaine has already made the sacrifice play here, boy,” Maildun said with faux-kindness. “Go home. I have what I want, and you... you are done here.”

“I would politely disagree.”

“What the hell are you doing Merlin?” Gwaine hissed, having recovered from his shock enough to take a few steps towards them. “Get out of here! Go back to Camelot! You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Shut up Gwaine,” Merlin snapped. The knight blinked in shock, and Merlin realised that he would probably feel guilty later. He wasn’t angry at Gwaine, not really. But he was done pretending - that he needed others to look after and protect him, that he was helpless, that people could walk over him without fear of retaliation. He was done being underestimated. He was done being written off by those who should have known better. He was just... done. And maybe it just made protecting everyone that much harder when the very people that he cared for decided they wanted to be the martyr, too.

“Yes. Shut up, son,” Maildun echoed, and suddenly he was far closer than Merlin would have liked. Several of the witchfinders glanced back up, but the barely contained, fanatical greed in the warlord’s eyes made everything beyond him seem irrelevant. Merlin had to stop himself from taking a step back. “What are you doing here, Emrys?” Maildun asked, gesturing curiously towards the bind. “What’s your plan? Because _that_ might make things difficult if you’re going to try and taking Gwaine back to Camelot by force.” The other man smiled nastily. “Did your king put it there, by any chance?”

“Go to hell,” Merlin snarled, and the witchfinder laughed again.

“I’m confused. What are you hoping to achieve, then?”

Merlin took a deep breath, centring himself, and fished something out of his pocket. “Here,” he said shortly, tossing it underhanded. The witchfinder caught it easily, holding the object up to the light and appraising the familiar golden key. He quirked his head in question. “I can’t use my magic,” Merlin said quietly. “I’m not a threat. I came to talk.”

“Merlin...” Gwaine said warningly, glancing between the two of them like a hawk with one hand on his sword, but the warlock ignored him. He was _good_ at this; at finding the right words, at crafting a persona and a lie that directed events where they needed to go. This he could do.

“You came all this way, and expended so many resources,” Merlin said carefully, with just a hint of challenge in his tone, “just to find me. Emrys. _The_ Emrys. You said yourself that it was the greatest achievement any witchfinder could hope to accomplish in their lifetime. So. Here I am. Let Gwaine leave.”

“I told you,” Mailldun said tersely, running his tongue over his teeth. “I’m no longer interested in capturing the might Emrys, no matter how prettily packaged he might come.”

“But could you live with yourself afterwards?” Merlin demanded, very determinedly not letting his gaze flicker anywhere near Gwaine. “I’m a monster, aren’t I? The most powerful magic user in the Five Kingdoms, and you’re just going to let me wander around doing whatever the hell I please - so you get to spend some quality time with your family? What will your people think?” He smiled, and if his teeth were perhaps slightly sharper than usual... well. They must have been imagining it. “I could burn these lands to the ground. I could turn every single person in Camelot to ash, just because I had a bad day. Because I _felt_ like it. And you would have been able to stop me.”

“But you won’t,” Maildun replied, but he sounded anything but certain - appraising Merlin anew with a lifetime of prejudice in his eyes.

“Maybe I’ll do it just to spite you. Just to show you how pathetic you are.”

He saw the exact moment that something snapped behind the witch finder’s gaze - the moment the other man decided that, deal or not, he was going to take Merlin’s life. Suddenly Maildun’s people were on their feet again, watching voraciously, as though scenting blood to be spilled. “You’re a fool, you arrogant child,” Maildun said softly, his lip curling. “You’re bleeding. You’re broken. You can barely stand, and your devil powers are locked far, far away. And _you_ would threaten _me_?” Very deliberately, the witch finder turned and tossed the golden key as far as he could. Merlin tracked it to the peak of its glimmering arc, but without his heightened senses he lost sight of it long before it hit the ground. He swallowed, and suddenly there was no space at all between Maildun and himself, and any remaining amusement had drained completely from the other man’s eyes. The witch finder cracked his neck from side to side. “I’m going to enjoy teaching you this lesson again.” He paused, as though scrutinizing some insect far down on the ground beneath his boot. “The great Emrys. What a disappointment you turned out to be.”

Merlin finally allowed himself to glance in Gwaine’s direction. He smiled. And he wondered if maybe, one day, he might be forgiven.

₪₪₪₪₪

Gwaine didn’t understand.

He didn’t understand why Merlin was here rather than back in Camelot, safe and sound and healing. That had been the entire point of his decision - that Merlin live. And damn the younger man for not just doing as he was supposed to for once in his life.

Multiple sets of hands had him by the arms once again the moment he so much as thought of moving. He watched his friend and his step-father facing off, barely a foot between them, and he despaired. It was no contest at all. Maildun was fit and bullish and looming. Merlin, for all the lean muscle that he had built, was currently kitten-weak and battered within an inch of his life. Maildun had been right - dark blood was leaking through his bandages thanks to his recent exertions, and he was swaying dangerously on the spot. The complete and utter idiot was defenceless without his magic, and he had to know it. He had to know how ridiculous he was, only half-dressed and with one of his arms in a _sling_ , for crying out loud. And now Gwaine was going to have to watch him get hurt and killed all. Over. _Again_.

How was he going to make sure that Arthur knew? Send a letter from Maildun’s fortress and hope that it arrived before someone stumbled over Merlin’s mangled corpse - or that Arthur would even believe it in the first place? Or would he flee back to Camelot once there was nothing left to bind him? Would his final memories of his friend, besides blood and screaming, be that Merlin had left him behind, alone, to break the nightmare to their friends and watch as it broke them in turn?

It made his want to roar and rage and tear apart trees with his bare hands. It made him want to lunge forward and wrap Merlin up in his arms; to hold on, _tight_ , and never let go. _Damn_ him, for making Gwaine care this much - and for the fact that there was nothing he could do but witness.

But the first blow never came.

Gwaine frowned in confusion as something squelched wetly and Maildun grunted, clutching at his stomach with his hands at an angle that was hidden from Gwaine’s view. Merlin’s eyes were inscrutable as Gwaine’s step-father stumbled slightly. The knight heard a faint sucking sound and suddenly there was a long, slim blade in the warlock’s good hand, thick crimson staining its length and running down across pale, slender fingers... and Maildun was gasping, faltering, cursing.

Falling.

Gwaine blinked as Maildun simply crumpled into the dirt. There was a ragged tear in his step-father’s expensive over-shirt, the knight noted clinically. Right where his plate mail would have joined almost seamlessly. Right where a physician - and the manservant in charge of the armour of a king - would know to strike a killing blow. Blood began to leak from the gap, spilling out to pool on the forest floor, and Gwaine watched its spread in fascination before tearing his gaze away to stare uncomprehendingly at Merlin.

“The armoury is on the way to the tunnels,” Merlin said tiredly, letting the knife fall from nerveless fingers. As though that explained everything.

“He’s dead,” someone said dumbly. “The demon killed Lord Maildun!”

“I’ll kill _him_ ,” one of their less intelligent fellows added hotly, and suddenly the witch-bind was falling to the ground beside Maildun’s corpse with a faint _click_ , and Merlin no longer looked quite so frail.

“Try it,” the warlock said calmly, body tensing like a spring. “Or you could just watch me and my friend leave, and all of you could walk away in one piece.”

If only their lives had been so easy.

There were perhaps forty witch finders total in the camp. No ordinary sorcerer could have stood against that many runed weapons, or even that many enemy bodies. But then, as they should have realised by now, Merlin - _Emrys_ \- was no ordinary sorcerer.

Perhaps Merrain had been right. Perhaps he wasn’t even human.

Merlin’s sling shredded and fell away the moment the first weapon cleared its sheath, and the warlock flexed his previously crippled arm like it had never been broken - curling the fingers experimentally as the magic flowed back through his body and lit his eyes with flames that grew stronger and brighter until even the whites had been eclipsed by a solid golden fire. Bowstrings and crossbows whistled suddenly to life in a repeat of Marrain’s earlier tactics, and the servant laughed; a joyous, wild, bubbling sound that reminded the knight of thunder over the mountains, or waves crashing on the solid shore. The heavy metal bolts, heralded as impervious to magical assault, simply disintegrated and blew away like so much dust on the wind before they had zipped halfway across the clearing - and for the first time since he had discovered that Merlin was practicing witchcraft, even since the name Emrys had been mentioned, Gwaine felt a flicker of real fear as he beheld his friend. He barely noticed when the two witch finders dropped his arms in favour of drawing their weapons and charging along with their fellows. Instead he simply stumbled backwards and stared as Merlin wrought a carnage that would have put a dragon to shame.

The first few foolish souls to charge the warlock were hurled backwards in a deafening, concussive wave of concerted energy that cracked outwards like a thunderclap, flattening tents and splintering the closest wagons to kindling. Most of them shook themselves off and got back to their feet, circling more warily this time. A handful of witch finders darted in from each side only for something - too many somethings - to burst from the earth in a shower of dirt to roil and twine around the hunter’s legs like snakes, pulling them up short and flinging them to the side with panicked shouts. It took Gwaine a moment to realise that the sinuous shapes were roots; that the trees themselves had shaken to life with a vicious glee, swaying and groaning ominously above them.

It was difficult to tell if Merlin’s golden eyes were tracking the movement around him at all, or if some other, less natural sense was in play; the root-serpents plunged in and out of the earth with unerring accuracy, chasing after their quarries almost playfully. Finally someone came to their senses and realised that a concerted attack was their only chance, and Gwaine shouted a warning, recognising the hand signals that flitted around the camp. He had seen this part before. The sorcerer would push back the first dozen or so as the witch finders swarmed like ants, calling on whatever came to hand in their spells; and then the sheer number of bodies would drag them to the ground and a runed blade, just one among many, would find its home in their flesh. And that would be the beginning of the end.

That was not what happened. Suddenly it was as though all the moisture had been sucked from the air itself, his very breath burning and choking at the back of Gwaine’s throat. He barely saw Merlin throw his head back and _roar_ \- and dragon-fire once again blossomed on the raging wind. People started screaming as it exploded outwards and twisted through the air like something living, beating at their own limbs and abandoning the charge as the flames took hold and greedily devoured cloth and flesh. The sensible ones dropped and rolled until the earth had smothered the flames, rising again with sheer hate in their eyes.

The drake curled and settled net-like around its maker, but there were gaps in the barricade. Gwaine shielded his eyes and squinted, trying to make it all out past the brightness. He saw the indistinct forms of more than one witch finder leap clear through the fire, ignoring the sparks that ignited on their clothing in favour of hacking determinedly at the warlock. Through the searing heat haze he saw Merlin regard them coolly with flickering golden orbs and sway gracefully out of the paths of their weapons with far too much speed and surety. For the first time the warlock reinforced his spells with a gesture, raising one hand and clenching it into a fist that pulled the hunters inwards, and then sent them hurtling back. The flames bent scornfully out of the way, as though they couldn’t be bothered with the effort; but even without being burnt to a crisp, none of those witch finders moved from where they crashed painfully into the ground.

Perhaps Merlin decided that the poor excuse for a fight had gone on long enough. Perhaps he simply got bored. Whatever the reason, the lingering flames were sucked from the air as though by a vacuum, flowing _into_ Merlin and setting his very body afire with pulsing, shimmering light; and for a moment all was still, dead, silent. Then a second concussion ripped the glade apart in an explosion of sheer, brutal power with Merlin at its centre, flinging the hunters and near everything else in the destroyed camp out of the clearing like ragdolls. Even Gwaine was sent tumbling to his knees, and there he stayed, gasping and shell-shocked in the absurd, motionless quiet that followed.

For a goodly while there was no sound but his own rapid breathing and the faint crackle of small spot fires that flickered cheerfully to life amongst the wreckage, tempering the air with smoke. Merlin was the only thing in the glade that remained upright, his chest rising and falling rapidly and his head cocked to the side in a motion that was more bird-like than human as he surveyed the destruction, searching for any remaining threats. The knight didn’t even dare breath as his friend’s golden gaze twitched to the side and came to rest upon his own. For a moment he vaguely wondered if this was the end. Then Merlin blinked, and suddenly his eyes were blue again. Blue, and human.

“Gwaine,” Merlin said simply, sounding absurdly childish. Like Gwaine’s response was the only thing that mattered in the world - the only thing that could make it okay.

Gwaine swallowed. A dozen different answers ran through his mind, but not one of them seemed anywhere near right. He didn't know what emotion flashed in his own eyes, but whatever it was, it made Merlin look far too old and weary.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?”

Merlin’s head snapped towards the sound of the familiar voice, and Gwaine heaved himself heavily back to his own feet. He had no idea where his sword had ended up - probably a few hundred feet away by now - but somehow he doubted that he’d need it. Not with Merlin around. The two of them watched, the sole conscious beings left in what had once been the witch finders’ camp, as Merrain stepped carefully through the treeline; her eyes blown wide as she took in the destruction, and the slightest tremor in her tone. Behind her followed her people, the ones who had gone with her to Camelot, each of them stepping gingerly through the debris looking faintly nauseous. Tellingly, none of them drew their weapons.

“Merrain,” Merlin said in cool acknowledgment. Gwaine shifted a step closer to his friend, eyeing his sister curiously.

“I think that you may have misunderstood my instructions, Emrys,” Merrain said faintly, and Gwaine blinked.

“You told me to find a way. I found a way.”

“True.” Merrain glanced around as though searching for something. “My father?”

“He’s right there.”

Both Gwaine and his half-sister glanced in the direction that Merlin indicated, the knight almost unconsciously. He found his step-father’s body closer than he had expected - it had fetched up against the rise at some point, thrown by the explosions or caught up by the root-serpents and ferried out of Merlin’s way. For a moment all he could do was stare. So much of the warlord’s innate menace had seeped out of the body, leaving the monolith that had loomed over most of Gwaine’s life looking ridiculously small. Then Merrain’s eyes narrowed, and she braved taking a few quick steps in Merlin’s direction to kneel by her father’s side. “He’s still alive,” she said curiously, one of her fingers digging into Maildun’s throat to hound out a pulse.

Gwaine flinched, his eyes flicking over to Merlin. His friend hesitated, then shrugged, gesturing vaguely to the bodies strewn around in the distance. “They all are,” he said inscrutably. “Which is more than you would have given us.”

“I suppose I should be grateful.” She paused, her eyes hardening. “But this _is_ a dilemma. You've rather forced my hand. And who am I to… what do people say? Look a gift horse in the mouth?” There was a dagger resting across her knees as she absently stroked her father’s brow, and with a frown Gwaine recognised it as the same one that Merlin had used; flung about the same as the man that it had felled. Something in her countenance was ringing a rusted alarm inside of him. “Sleep well, Father,” Merrain said softly, so much so that he doubted they had been meant to hear; and before anyone could react Merrain slid the dagger neatly across her father’s throat in one quick, decisive movement - and with a horrible gurgling sound and a spurt of blood, Maildun died broken and alone.

Gwaine started, a few seconds too late. He stared in shock as his sister wiped off the excess blood on her trousers and rose calmly, as though nothing had happened. "I'm surprised that you have survived this long if you're in the habit of letting your enemies walk away alive, Emrys," she said archly. "Or I would be, if I hadn't just seen what happens to people who cross you."

“But... your people,” Gwaine said dazedly, wondering why none of them had so much as twitched as their lord was slain. “Surely-”

“I only took those faithful to me and me alone into Camelot, brother dear. Any and all that might have taken issue were rather conveniently left here while I was running errands." Merrain grinned nastily, something cunning and sly in the expression. "This has all worked out rather well in the end. Now I let you go your way without any hassle, you let me go mine - just like none of this ever happened. Everything is… mutually beneficial.”

“Of course,” Merlin spoke up, his voice sharp and pointed. “I leave your people be. You get out of Camelot by nightfall, and give _mine_ a wide berth. Starting right now. Then we don’t have any problems. Agreed?”

Merrain’s smile fell flat for a second, and she snorted. “Agreed,” she said unwillingly, gesturing sharply to her followers. “Drop them. Today we go home without a prize.”

For the first time Gwaine noticed that not all of the people behind Merrain were witch finders. He stifled an inappropriate, slightly hysterical grin as Rhys and Heilyn’s unconscious bodies were dumped unceremoniously on the ground with dull _thumps_ , both of the usually neat royals bound, gagged and severely mussed from being dragged through the woods. Merlin gestured again by his side, and the magic-restraints on both prince and princess fell away as though they were nothing more than rope. "I'm glad we could reach an agreement on such short notice," the warlock added, and Merrain pouted.

“You're _welcome_." A cheery grin suddenly masked her annoyance. "This was fun. We should do it again some time.”

To Gwaine’s eternal surprise, Merlin laughed. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Merlin said with a tired smile, “but I sincerely hope that I never see you again. Ever.”

“Likewise. Gwin. A pleasure as always.”

“Go to hell Merrain,” Gwaine called back, and then Merlin’s eyes flashed gold and with a roar of wind the clearing was swirling out of sight, the witch finders were gone, and they themselves were somewhere else entirely. And Camelot’s spires, rising gracefully above the treeline, were the sweetest sight that Gwaine had ever seen.

 

₪₪₪₪₪

 

Merrain let some of the tension melt out of her body the moment the phantom wind had whisked Emrys and her brother out of sight, trying to ignore the leftover, nauseous terror that had sprung into being the moment their camp – the wrecked, splintered remnant of what had been meant to be their safe place – had come into view. She clung onto that last shred of bravado, acutely aware of the eyes of her people on the back of her head as he sighed and nudged her father's body idly out of the way with the toe of one boot. The faintest kernel of regret lodged itself deep in her heart, where she knew she would nurse it for the rest of her days. But he would have destroyed them - either by propping an unwilling heir at their head, or by chasing after Emrys and Gwaine until the warlock finally gave in and blasted their family from the face of the earth. It had been necessary. And Maildun had always taught her to do what was necessary.

"What would you have us do about them, milady?" Rhun asked cautiously, her second waving a dismissive hand at her father's still unconscious followers.

"Help them recover. We must be as far from here as possible by the time the sun sets," Merrain said automatically. It would be a slow and harsh journey back to the keep with so many wounded and so few intact supplies, she knew. Then she let her voice rise so that all of her followers perked up to listen. "It is a dreadful shame," she called firmly, "that my father was slain in heroic battle against his own turncoat son and the monstrous Emrys - leaving his only remaining child to rescue his valiant warriors and claim sole heirship to his lands and titles. Would you not agree, my friends?"

"The Lady Merrain!" someone shouted savagely. "Long may she hold the darkness at bay!" Merrain smiled tightly as their fellows echoed the heart-felt cry before scurrying off to rouse and spread the story to each to the forty odd soldiers Emrys had felled. Rhun shot her a look as they went, lowering his voice so that none of the others could hear.

"Are we really just going to walk away?" the witch finder questioned with a furrowed brow. "After all that we have done? We could go now, while his guard is down-"

"No," Merrain said simply, her tone brooking no argument. "Camelot is not for us, Rhun. You've seen what Emrys can do while half dead. Imagine him on a good day. Best that we leave now, while we are as close to being in his good graces as we are likely to get - and that we survive to fight another day. Besides… I have a feeling that this is not the last that we have seen of Emrys, or of my brother."

"My lady," her second acquiesced respectfully, backing off to give his mistress some peace.

Merrain took a deep breath, taking a moment to drop her guard and revel in the solitude, to sort through her emotions, to straighten her spine and set her jaw - and to take in the fact that somehow, _some_ how, she had _won_. Her brother was gone for good, happy playing knight in Camelot. The witch finders were hers. And, for the moment, that was more than prize enough.

"Well played," she murmured quietly to herself, holding back a laugh that bubbled up from somewhere carefree and forgotten deep inside of her. "Well played, my friend. Until next time, then… Merlin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't regret it. Maildun deserved everything he got. I do hope that I managed to surprise you, though! Also, to everyone who commented on the last chapter amd on Five Times (which I unfortunately don't have an update for today) - you are amazing and I love you all.
> 
> A few notes; first, I know not everyone liked Merrain, but her character seems to have developed on its own into some kind of morally grey frenemy for Merlin and Gwaine - and I kind of like it. Second, if a few things *cough cough the witch bind* still seem like they need explaining, that'll go down in the next chapter. 
> 
> Gah, this chapter nearly killed me. It's nearly a thousand words longer than they usually are, and I haven't even touched on Merlin and Gwaine's talk. I'm very proud of it, though, and I really hope you liked it :)
> 
> Next and last - Emrys tells the witch twins what's what, Arthur flails, and Merlin and Gwaine have a heart to heart.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

Merlin’s magic slipped from his grasp the moment he let go of the teleportation spell – fleeing somewhere deep inside him where, now that the adrenaline was fading, he couldn’t quite find it. He glanced around wearily, making sure that he hadn’t dropped any of his charges mid jump. Transporting them all had been a huge drain on his energy, and he’d nearly fumbled his magical grip on them and left them to be shredded to dust and energy more than once. To his relief, he found the twins sprawled unconscious and whole on the earth not far from him. Gwaine had managed to keep his feet throughout the journey, which was more than Merlin would have been able to say for his own first encounter with the travelling spell.

Assured that they were all relatively safe, Merlin allowed himself to slip to the ground cross-legged, staring dumbly at the earth and letting the fatigue wash over him unhindered. Not much further now, and he could rest. Relax. Sleep. His head dropped forwards unconsciously, and a welcome blackness creeped up upon the edges of his vision and his mind-

“Hey, Merlin. Merlin, stay awake.”

“Why?” Merlin demanded groggily.

“Because we have to deal with those two yet, my friend.”

The warlock forced his eyes halfway open, enough to glance in the direction of the twins and to see that the two of them were gently stirring. “Oh. Okay,” he sighed. He waved one hand, and rather than bothering to try and pull his magic from its rest, he simply pushed some of his exhaustion over in the general direction of the prince and princess, and let them sink back into slumber.

Then he blacked out.

  
₪₪₪₪₪

  
When he woke, he found that he was still exhausted, though no longer sickened by it. His surroundings had changed - he was still in the forest, but the spires of Camelot were no longer visible through its treetops. Merlin frowned, forcing his mind and body further awake and pushing himself up from the carpet of leaves. He winced. Moving didn’t seem to agree with him at the moment.

More carefully this time, he pulled himself up into a sitting position and glanced around, trying to figure out how he had gotten there. He didn’t have to search very far before he found Gwaine sitting on the leaf litter a few metres away, watching him inscrutably as though he had been waiting for him to wake.

Merlin’s head had cleared with what little sleep he’d managed to grab, but it still took a moment for him to remember and process everything that he had done in Gwaine’s presence. He dropped his gaze from Gwaine’s, feeling a flush creeping up his cheeks and a tremor creep into his hands as he locked his eyes on his fidgeting fingers instead.

“You alright there, Merlin?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin said quickly. He hesitated. “What about you? You weren’t hurt, were you?”

“Not me, no,” came the reply, and Merlin saw the spurt of blood as his knife found its way into Maildun’s flesh, the screams brought by his fire curling through the air, the crack and crunch of bodies fetching up against the ground where he had thrown them-

He shut off the memories forcibly, and the two of them lapsed into an uneasy silence that the warlock couldn’t bring himself to break.

“So,” Gwaine said eventually, stumbling over the words as though they pained him, “I suppose that we should probably talk.”

The knight’s voice is uncertain, hesitant, and Merlin didn’t blame him. It occurred to him to wonder why Gwaine had brought him further away from Camelot, rather than making for the safe haven of the city’s walls. Perhaps the knight had realised that there was no safety if Merlin – Emrys – was nearby. Perhaps this was it; the moment when one of his friends decided that they were all better off without him.

For some reason, in all his imaginings, Gwaine had never once been the one to wield the sword.

“Of course,” Merlin said tonelessly. “What did you want to know?”

Gwaine paused across from him, and the warlock chanced peeking up to see his friend regarding him strangely. “Honestly, I thought that you might be the one with some questions mate. Just tell me what you want to know, and I’ll tell it to you straight. About any of it. The witch finders, the bind…” Some of Merlin’s blankness must have shown, and the knight made an odd, nervous, encompassing gesture with his hands. “Come on. Yell a little. Scream a bit. Take a shot. You must have _something_ that you want to get off of your chest, after everything I put you through.”

Merlin stared at his friend, fairly certain that the world must have gone mad. “What… no. No! How was any of that your fault?” He let out a strangled, hiccupping laugh. “You should be the one yelling. You just watched me nearly kill all of those people. I’m a magic user, hiding in Camelot. I’m Emrys! What are you just sitting there for?”

To his surprise, all of the tension seemed to leech out of the knight, and his lips twisted into the beginnings of a smile. “Well, would you look at that,” Gwaine said wonderingly. “Here I was thinking that you’d hate me, and I didn’t even stop to think that you might be worrying about the exact same thing.”

“Except opposite,” Merlin said tentatively after a pause, eying the knight carefully. He saw no anger in the other man’s eyes, only hesitancy, and other emotions oddly similar to the ones roiling in his own stomach. Anxiety. Uncertainty. Fear. Determination. And perhaps a little bit of hope.

“Except opposite,” Gwaine agreed. “Not the hunter, but the hunted. The witchfinder and the warlock, hey? What a strange pair we must make.”

“Yeah.” A thought crossed Merlin’s mind. “Do you think that you would have told me? That you knew?”

“I hope so,” the knight said reluctantly. “But I needed to be certain that you were still the same person I called friend. It was something that I had to work out on my own, you know?” Merlin nodded his understanding. “But you… Merlin, did it even once cross you mind that maybe you shouldn’t save me?”

“Erm… no.”

Gwaine lifted his hands as though to say, _there you have it_. “You never said to yourself, well, shit, a knight of Camelot with a history of prejudice against my kind knows what I am, and could easily either attack me or tell every single person I care about and ruin everything I’ve worked for. Maybe I should just let him quietly disappear? It didn’t even _bother you_?”

Merlin paused. Well… no. He couldn’t recall Gwaine’s past ever even entering the debate. Maybe that had been naïve, but it had been _Gwaine_. It suddenly clicked for him, just what his friend was trying to say. The whole time, he had _wanted_ to fix things between himself and his friend, desperately. He’d _wanted_ to trust the other man. Because Gwaine was Gwaine, and Merlin was Merlin, and saving each other was what they did. By some miracle, their secrets hadn’t changed that.

“You don’t hate me,” he said, his voice small. “You’re not going to tell Arthur?”

“No,” Gwaine said firmly. “No, I don’t think that I am.”

_“Thank you.”_

“I think you deserve that much, Merlin. I think that I’m the one who should be thanking you.” A pause. “Just to clear things up though – you’re not… secretly working to bring down the kingdom or anything like that, right?” Gwaine added after a moment or two, trying his best to look casual.

“No, actually. I’m trying my hardest to protect it.”

“Oh. I guess I should have expected that.”

“Mm.” There was a beat of awkward silence. “It’s going to take a while for you to trust me again though, isn’t it?” Merlin said tiredly. “Completely, with everything.”

“Probably,” Gwaine replied honestly. “I’m not as good at trusting people as you are. But I’m going to try. And I’m going to try to be there for you. Could you answer one more question, though?”

“Probably.”

“The bind. How the devil did you get it off?”

“Oh.” Merlin actually laughed a little, oddly pleased that the other man had noticed. He fished something out of the pocket of his trousers and held it up so that it glinted gold in what light managed to penetrate the trees around them. “Simple, really. I made a spare key.”

“With-”

“Magic.”

“But the bind would have been warded. It would have been able to tell the difference.”

“Yes. Which is why I gave Maildun the copy, and kept the real one right here.”

Gwaine blinked over at him, a delighted grin spreading over his face. Merlin felt his own lips twitching upwards too, and suddenly the two of them were laughing, and the awkwardness was forgotten for a moment at least. Such a simple thing, really.

Merlin had always found the simple plans to be the best, after all.

  
₪₪₪₪₪

  
“My turn,” Merlin said eventually. “If it wasn’t to dispose of my body, why on earth did you drag us all the way out here? I tried very hard to get us as close to Camelot as I could, you know.”

“Ah,” Gwaine replied, watching his friend carefully. “Well, we’ve still got one problem. Them.”

He pointed to where he’d propped the twins up against the bole of a tree, the two of them twitching restlessly in their sleep. He’d been extremely glad that Merlin had woken up before they had – the knight wasn’t sure exactly how strong the spell on them was, but he certainly hadn’t wanted to find himself with two angry, confused magical royals on his hands.

“Right,” Merlin said, his eyes narrowing as he beheld the two. “Leave them to me.”

There was something of the man in the clearing, and very little of the foolish servant in Merlin’s tone and bearing as he hauled himself upright and onto his feet, beholding Rhys and Heilyn with distaste. Gwaine rose next to him, but retreated to the side a little. These were Merlin’s people – in more ways than one, perhaps, if Emrys truly meant everything that Gwaine suspected – and the knight didn’t want to interfere.

If he was completely honest with himself, he also wasn’t entirely comfortable around this version of Merlin. It drove home that, truly, his friend was _not_ the same person he’d thought. He wasn’t _different_ perhaps, but he was _more_. Knowing it was one thing. Watching was another, and it made Gwaine’s hands itch for a weapon, as much as he detested himself for it. But comfort, and ease, and trust – those, he told himself, would come in time, because he _wanted_ them to.

Merlin waved a hand and the prince and princess woke with a start, shooting to their feet and glancing all around, taking in their surroundings. Gwaine supposed that the last they had known, they had been being kidnapped and carried away by his sister and her people. He watched them take in Merlin in front of them, gaining their bearings remarkably quickly, and saw their grudging realisation as to what must have happened.

From the way their eyes darted to and fro, expressions coming and going across their faces and Merlin’s, he assumed that some form of silent conversation passed between them that he was not privy to – one that pertained to his presence, if the volume of glances sent in his direction where anything to go by. Eventually Merlin must have convinced them that he was not a threat, and the pair dipped shallow, almost irritated bows in Merlin’s direction, seeming to settle for pretending that Gwaine did not exist.

“I suppose that we have you to thank for our finding ourselves no longer captive, Emrys,” Heilyn said sharply. “Though I doubt that any rescue would have been necessary at all if you had accepted our help in the first place.”

“Now that you have seen the dangers that you face, will you change your mind?” Rhys added acerbically. They were putting up a front, Gwaine saw shrewdly, but he could tell that the two of them were extremely rattled.

Merlin frowned. “The danger that you faced, do you mean?” he said quietly. “Because I saved _you_ today. I had to keep _you_ out of danger. Not the other way around.”

“The witch finders will come back, Emrys, and in greater numbers. You will need numbers on your own side.”

“The witch finders will not be coming back,” Merlin interrupted, “because their old leader is dead, and their new leader is too wise to irritate me again.”

Gwaine started, and he thought he saw the twins do the same. His friend stood, back straight, jaw rigid, fury and fire in his eyes and his voice. Cloaked in power and authority as he suddenly was, his ratty trousers and battered, bare chest, bloody again now that his wounds had reopened, may as well have been the raiment of a king. It wouldn’t have made a difference.

“Do you know the true meaning of Emrys?”

“Of course-”

“Then you _should know better_ ,” Merlin said. “You know the words of the prophecies, but you do not understand their meanings. I dealt with this threat, as I have a hundred like it before, and will a hundred again. I did not need you then. I do not need your help now.”

“I know that it may seem that way, my lord-”

“If I am your lord, then why do you insist on believing yourself to be better than me?” Merlin demanded, flecks of gold gathering in his eyes like fireflies until the whole orb was lit up with flame, just as it had back in the clearing, and the dragon had suffused his voice once more. His very presence seemed to fill the glade and press down on all inside it; Gwaine imagined that, for those with magic, sensitive to its touch, the sensation must have been twice as frightening. “My magic is more powerful than either of you could dream. I am magic. _Do you doubt me_?”

Both of the sorcerers before him shrank back, their eyes widening in surprise as they realised the depth of their mistake. “No, Emrys,” Heilyn said, the placating smugness leeching from her voice. “Of course not.”

“Then you will go back to your king, and inform him that Camelot is under _my_ protection. King Arthur is under _my_ protection. I believe him to be the Once and Future King, and that will be good enough for you. You will not interfere again.”

“Yes, my lord,” Rhys and Heilyn said together, their voices quiet and mumbling.

The warlock’s demeanour softened. “Look, I know that the two of you meant well, even if you have a funny way of showing it. Please remember, that you and all of our people are under my protection also, not just Camelot. It would make me very… happy, if we could put this behind us and work together, in the future.” _But on my terms_ , Merlin’s eyes seemed to say, even if it was only gently.

“We would have it so, also.” Gwaine was suddenly reminded of the twins addressing Arthur in a similar manner, though he thought that they seemed more genuine, in this instance. He found himself wondering if perhaps this treaty, this alliance being formed right here in front of him, might be more important than any that they might have struck with Camelot. “That is all we truly wanted, lord. To work together to achieve our goals.”

“Then we will work together.” Merlin paused. “Oh, and Rhys,” he added suddenly, sounding a bit more like himself. “Stop sending me bloody nightmares. It’s not achieving anything.”

The prince startled. “But-”

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are. Go back to Camelot, both of you. Complete the treaty. When the time is right, your kingdom and its people will be recognised, and magic will be free. In the meantime, only I have the right to inform the King of my magic.”

“That might be difficult, Emrys,” Rhys said quietly. “The witch finder informed King Arthur of our kingdom’s leniency towards magic. He knows that we are sorcerers. No doubt our people have already been arrested. We could not go back to Camelot if we wished to.”

Gwaine wasn’t sure what to make of that. It made sense. Merrain wouldn’t have wanted Camelot seeking to protect its guests, but she could perhaps not have risked a war in protecting her own interests. Despite himself, he felt a twinge of pity for Rhys and Heilyn. If they cared for their kingdom – and they obviously did – it must be hard, knowing that they had now put it in so much danger, when they had been trying so hard to do the opposite.

Then he glanced to Merlin, wondering what his friend was thinking. What would he do, if right this instant Arthur were somewhere in Camelot gearing up for a war against Powys, and so against Merlin’s kind? Preparing to follow his father’s example, and to try and wipe out the magical kingdom?

Who would believe that Arthur was this Once and Future King, then?

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said simply. “Truly I am. Go home. Your people will be safe. Remember what I have said.”

And with that he waved his hand again, and the two of the disappeared in a gust of wind.

“Where did you send them?” Gwaine asked carefully, seeing the exhaustion creeping back into Merlin’s demeanour.

“The throne room of Powys,” the warlock said tiredly. “I think I got all of their people. It was difficult to tell from this distance. I’ll check when we go back to Camelot and send anyone I missed along, too.” The warlock didn’t seem to notice the way Gwaine startled at this statement, running a hand through his hair and forcing a half smile instead. “Can we go home now, Gwaine?”

“Yeah, Merlin,” Gwaine replied. “Let’s go home.”

  
₪₪₪₪₪

  
They ran into a Camelot patrol before they made it back to the city walls. Most of the knights were ones that he knew only as acquaintances on the training field, but Elyan rode at their head. Their friend startled and shouted in relief when the two of them came crashing out of the undergrowth; dismounting hurriedly and clapping Gwaine over the shoulder, gently ruffling Merlin’s hair and helping the younger man up onto one of the two horses that he managed to procure for them. It was all sorts of odd, watching Merlin accept the treatment and slip back into the role of servant, when so recently he had been the one issuing orders to royalty. Elyan sent his men on their way – searching for the prince and princess of Powys, you wouldn’t believe, the two of them are sorcerers, no-one’s sure if Camelot’s trying to rescue or capture them – with promises that he would hear the whole story from Gwaine’s lips once he’d gotten them safely back to the castle.

Once they had made their weary way back to the castle and dismounted in the courtyard, Elyan took off with a final nod, taking the steps two at a time in his haste to find the king and inform him that they had been found safely. By that point Merlin was beyond flagging, and Gwaine wordlessly hooked his arm underneath Merlin’s, and set about making his way to Gaius’ tower- an absurd place to find a physician, really – with the warlock leaning heavily against his side.

It was slow going up the winding staircase. Merlin’s head started drooping, and the knight took up a babbling litany of nonsense in an effort to keep him awake. _Not far now Merlin, we can all sleep soon, just need to figure out what they bloody hell we’re going to tell Arthur, you know. Bet the princess will be impressed with all of your war wounds. It’s not so impressive if you die, though. So you’ve got to stay conscious. Got to stay conscious…_

By the time they reached the top of the stairs the knight was the only thing keeping his friend upright, and he crashed shoulder first through the door into the physician’s chambers, struggling for balance.

“Gaius,” he gasped desperately as the physician shouted in alarm, shooting upright and taking in the scene in an instant. “Tell me what to do. Please.”

“Oh, Merlin,” the physician said, so quietly that Gwaine barely heard it, before shaking himself out of his daze. “Set him down over here, Sir Gwaine. He’s safe, now.”

“Yes,” the knight agreed, doing as he was bid and noting with relief how peaceful his friend appeared. As though he were merely sleeping. “Yes, he is.”

And he would stay that way, because Gwaine would be there to make sure of it. Always.

  
₪₪₪₪₪

  
Arthur knocked hesitantly on the door to Gaius’ chambers with his good arm. He could here indistinct voices floating out from inside, and of he listened hard enough, he could just make out one of them as Merlin’s. The king stood there for a moment, just listening to the sound with a small smile on his lips.

When the door opened, it was Gaius standing there to greet him. “Sire,” his physician said warmly.

“Is he able to have visitors?” the king queried, the pit of anxiety in his stomach lessening at Gaius’ reassuring expression.

“Yes, sire. He’s still weak, so try not to excite him too much. But he’s healing nicely, and he’s been asking after you quite insistently, so on the whole I think it would do more harm not to let you in.”

“The idiot,” Arthur said fondly, easing through the doorway past the older man and into the warmth of the small rooms beyond.

The door to Merlin’s small chamber was wide open, muted candle light spilling out through the gap. There was someone else already sitting by his servants bed, and he was not at all surprised to recognise Gwaine, telling some tall tale undoubtedly that had Merlin smiling and chuckling, holding up a hand to bend over slightly as the movement pained him.

The two of them lapsed into silence as Arthur made his way up the steps and into the room, and the king hesitated for a moment, surprised by the awkwardness of the quiet. Merlin and Gwaine were many things, but awkward in each other’s company was not one of them. “May I steal my manservant for a moment, Gwaine?” he said, more a command than a question. For a moment he thought that that knight might argue, but then he shrugged and stood abruptly, stretching out his arms so that the joints cracked and popped.

“Aye, I’d say it’s about time for my beauty rest,” Gwaine said with a grin. “Hoot three times like a barn owl if you need to be rescued from his royal pratness, Merls.”

“It’s not like I can run away,” Merlin joked, and the knight chuckled and ruffled the servant’s hair fondly before turning to make his exit, nodding to Arthur on his way past.

The king waited until the main door to Gaius’ chambers had swung shut before scrutinising his servant. “So. They tell me that a band of witch finders took an unhealthy interest in you.”

“There must be something in the witch finder code of conduct about being stark raving mad,” Merlin said solemnly, and the king couldn’t help snorting.

“And they wanted..?”

“Information about the Powysi, of all things. And the summit. I guess they wanted to know when would be the best opportunity to strike. Would have made more sense to kidnap one of the servants from _Powys_ , you’d think, but apparently they all had magic so…”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. It was difficult to doubt his servants word, with Merlin pale as death and exhaustedly earnest in from of him. The whole affair – for all that it seemed over for Camelot, at least – made him feel powerless, somehow. At a loss. Since when had his _servant_ been a target, of all people? Since when had outside forces realised that Merlin could be a source information, or worth kidnapping at all?

“You’re sure that’s all that they wanted?” Arthur said seriously, watching Merlin closely for any sign that he might be lying.

“I’m not sure about anything,” the servant replied wearily. “I just know that the first time they wanted information, and the second time they wanted me to keep my mouth shut. I was lucky Gwaine showed up both times, and that the prince and princess escaped so spectacularly.”

Yes. That was the story he’d been told. The four of them had found themselves imprisoned, soon to be killed, but the witch finders had underestimated the magical royals. The two had broken free, resulting in the carnage that his knights had found deep in the forest at an abandoned camp site, and Merlin and Gwaine had escaped in the confusion.

He wasn’t sure that he believed it. He wasn’t sure why he wouldn’t. But his people were safe, and the sorcerers were gone – all of them, in fact, vanished from the cells beneath the noses of his guards – and for the moment that was all that mattered, really.

“It’s a shame about the treaty,” Arthur said regretfully. “It really would have been of great benefit to the Five Kingdoms.”

“What are you going to do?” Merlin queried quietly. “It must have been strange, the whole affair.”

“Yes. It was. But I’m not going to do anything,” Arthur said firmly, chuckling as Merlin startled. “I want to achieve peace in these lands Merlin, not war. The laws of another kingdom are, quite frankly, none of my business. I might feel uncomfortable about it, and keep a very close eye on them in the future, but I don’t have any authority to tell them that they’re wrong. As long as they leave us alone, I’ll leave them alone. But I won’t be seeking out another treaty with them, that’s for sure.”

“I think that’s the right decision, sire,” Merlin said hesitantly, with that look in his eyes that Arthur had never understood, and despite himself the king felt a – brief and quickly quashed – glow of warmth at the approval in his servant’s tone.

“Well,” Arthur said quickly, forcing himself to break the companionable quiet. “When can I expect you back at work? I’m injured, you know, I’ll have need of a servant before too long.”

“Oh, you must be in so much pain. My deepest sympathies,” Merlin said sarcastically, and Arthur grinned. Gods, he’d missed this. Every time, _every_ time that he thought perhaps he might not hear Merlin’s voice again, berating or approving or otherwise, it lodged a splinter in his heart.

“Oh, one more thing,” Arthur said on a whim, forcing himself to stand up to leave. Merlin looked like he was about to nod off, and the king certainly wouldn’t be the one to keep him from his recovery. “Is everything alright between you and Gwaine? You just seemed a little off.”

“Worried, are you?” Merlin teased, and Arthur huffed in indignation.

“Of course not. I just don’t want to have to put up with your moping.”

“You know, Arthur,” Merlin said thoughtfully, perhaps made candid by the sleep misting his eyes, “I really think that we are. Okay, I mean. I actually think that everything will be alright.”

It was an odd thing to say, really. But for some reason that he couldn’t entirely fathom, it made Arthur feel a whole lot better about the world.

 

END PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's the last chapter. I had a lot of fun with this; and after I neglected him for the majority of the fic, Arthur just had to sneak a POV in at the end :D Did I wrap absolutely everything up with a bow? Nope. Will I return to this universe in another fic? Definitely. It's way too much fun to play around in. But not for a little while, I think, as I have a mountain of other works to do. My next multi chapter fic will be titled 'Monstrous', and if you've read Small Packages, that should tell you enough about what the plot will be. 
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking around with this one! I'd really love to hear what you thought about this last chapter, and the fic as a whole. See you soon, everyone :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!


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